Charlotte Matsumura

The Rihan known as Gaius Iuruth tr'Argelian stared blankly out into the darkness of space, closing his hand tightly around an isolinear chip. The control console before him blinked red and he sighed. It really had been too easy. Less than thirty-six hours on ch'Rihan, and the information for which he had travelled so far fell into his lap: Reports that detailed Tal'Shiar participation in the weapons smuggling that now plagued a portion of the Gamma Quadrant, as well as a few key names and dates. More surprising was the revelation of key players within the Federation – members of Fleet Intelligence leadership and, if he had a guess, the "defunct" Section 31. It was just enough information to make certain members of the current regimes very, very uncomfortable. It was also just enough information to get Khiy – or himself – killed. Fleeing for his life with the chip became a priority. Which led him to his current predicament. The cloaked scout ship he appropriated another lifetime ago had not aged well. The moisture of the storage environment had not done the bioneural interfaces any favors, and the lack of flight time had wreaked havoc with her control systems. It was through sheer force of will that Gaius had made it as far as he did. Finally, within sight of Federation space, propulsion gave way. He was left with limited power and expired provisions – not the best planning on his part. And now he two choices: Sit, wait, and hope he could choose who he contacted for assistance, or decloak and send out a distress signal, alerting patrolling Galae or Federation assets to his presence. Piquing the curiosity of patrolling Rihannsu was definitely his last resort; they would be entirely too interested in what he, an unauthorized third party, would be doing in a stolen scout ship approaching Federation space. There would be debriefings – much less civilized than his conversation with Khiy, and likely involving some forms of coercion. He had been well trained to reveal nothing under duress. Still, physical tactics might reveal more than they suspected. The moment his blood was spilled, it would all be over. Malcolm Grayson Alexander would bleed red and be killed for the Federation spy that he was. But discovery by Federation assets presented another set of problems. According to the official record, the commander had been removed from the active field roster by his own request, and transferred to Camelot Station, where he was to serve in the communications unit. It was plausible, given his education, and provided stable cover for his role as station chief. And, in the grand scheme, revelation of a station chief aboard Camelot would surprise no one. But the operation of his own agent – LTJG Charlotte Matsumura – required he maintain said cover. Without it, she could not complete her assignment, the entire reason for which she had trained an additional two years. Rescue by the Federation was, by all reasoning, the lesser of the two evils. It was still a fate he hoped to avoid. If he was lucky – if he was really, really lucky, he might be able to relay a message to one of the listening posts nearby. That would keep the whole ordeal "in the family," as it were; it would keep both cover stories intact. The problem was that without knowing the exact frequency, he might as well be broadcasting into a black hole. He could hope their hourly bandwidth sweep would stumble across a low-level, encrypted repeater before someone else found it, too. Slipping the isolinear chip back into his own concealed pocket, Alexander turned his attention back to the controls. Power was holding steady for now, and the communications system was still online. It was now or never. Drawing his lips to a thin line, he set to carefully composing his distress signal. ***

Khiy Aenikh had been a loyal servant of the Empire for nearly half his sixty years. Unlike many within his cohort, he chose to remain in service beyond his initial five years, the last fifteen spent in the company of the Tal'Shiar. That he had never progressed above the rank of major in such time was something of an open wound. But rank within Rihannsu military organizations was based on politics as much as it was capability – and while Khiy had been in favor with the previous cabal, the current powers that be had less than a passing interest. The result was great inequality between his social standing and his military rank. He had tried to work his way into their better graces, had even held his tongue when some of their operations did not seem to be of benefit to the Empire – something he found very difficult. Thus, when he first heard of a plan within the upper echelon to provide weapons to disparate groups under Federation persuasion, he showed visible interest; he was taken into modest confidence where the scheme was considered. When he eventually learned that said Empire officials were working with the Federation, however, his stomach roiled. The Federation would be looking out for Federation interests, not the Empire. Interests may temporarily align, after all, but what good could ever come from aligning with such untrustworthy souls? None, he thought, his jaw tightening. His hands gripped the railing as he once again looked out over the city. He had once again remained silent, feigned his continued interest. But this time, his silence had a personal cost: Ambassador Joval Aenikh, his wife's uncle, and the outspoken sponsor for their union, sought to stop the treasonous activity. He had been assassinated for his efforts. Khiy now stood at an inevitable crossroad, one he now saw the Fates had been directing him toward his entire life. Remaining silent, remaining complicit bought him political power within the current Tal'Shiar leadership. But the honor of his house – and his affections – demanded retribution. In reality, there was no competition; he knew well what his choice must be. Reaching up, Khiy brushed his hand against the small, concealed pocket sewn into the lining of his tunic. He could still feel the comforting inflexibility of the isolinear chip hidden there – an isolinear chip filled with as much information as he had been able to download without arousing suspicion: Names, dates, and a few internal reports that referenced the clandestine operation. Once done, he had encrypted the files with a Federation key, left over from the Dominion War. Any Rihan would have more than a little difficulty breaking the encryption…but it also meant that, should he be caught with it, he could be labeled a traitor himself. He had to get rid of the information quickly, providing it to the proper authorities within the Federation. Behind him, the mechanical clock in the sitting room chimed a late hour. His wife would be waiting. The death of her uncle had caused her many sleepless nights; she found dreams only in his company. Recollection stirred his blood to boiling once again. She was a brave, loyal Rihan, his ailhun. She didn't deserve this pain, nor the pain of concealing such grief from the outside world. She did deserve revenge. A slow, cold smile crept across his features. It could not be a coincidence that Gaius tr'Argelian, mercenary and friend, had returned from unofficial exile. Tr'Argelian would serve as the instrument of his retribution. As a true Rihan, he would understand. As a friend, he would make them pay. ***

Seated on a balcony that offered a sweeping view of the capitol city, Gaius tr'Argelian swirled the remaining swallow of his khavas in the bottom of his cup. It was quite a bit like raktajino, this blend – not that he could ever say so. To imply that the Rihannsu culture had appropriated anything from the barbaric Klling'hann would do more damage to his survival than even the poor upbringing in his dossier. And, at the moment, he could little afford such insults. His discussion with Major Khiy Aenikh had been amiable thus far. Conversation had varied from past experiences, to changes in the past ten years, and eventually to his activities over the past ten years. But the easy hospitality concealed a tight strain of threatening tension, just below the surface of their civilized discussion: Despite the comfortable chair and not-raktajino, this was still a debriefing. Gaius knew he was being tested. It was much later, when Aenikh dismissed his aide, that tr'Argelian knew he had passed. "I do apologize for hijacking au, Gaius, but even au have to admit, this sudden reappearance after so long... No one knew what became of au," Khiy apologized at length. "It made for a very intriguing mystery." "And for most, it must remain so. I imagine that our...friends... would find it very disagreeable if I shared my experience widely." Tr'Argelian drained the last of his khavas. "Though I'm sure some enterprising soul might find an account deep within the Galae archives." Major Aenikh gave a wry grin over the rim of his cup. "If such a thing were a priority, I'm certain they could." He took a long sip of the warm liquid, appraising the mercenary as he did so. "Tell me, my friend, have au a place to stay, while here?" Gaius shook his head. "Not at the moment. I hoped to make the trip brief – stir up a bit of, ah, business and depart as quickly as possible." He allowed his own wry grin, leaning back in his chair. "Why? Have au some work for me?" "It's possible... but I must speak with an associate first. You'll stay here until I can confirm?" "I would be honored. Thank you, Khiy." Aenikh leaned in, offering a stage whisper. "When you meet my ailhun, you may not be so thankful!" He laughed heartily and shook his head. "Now, let us have more khavas, and discuss the latest rumors. Even away, I know au have eyes and ears." Tr'Argelian smirked. "Oh, my friend, au have no idea..." ***

To the outside observer, the passenger in seat four was observant and well-heeled: He dressed respectably, spoke intelligently, and had a business acumen far surpassing the average. Aboard the commercial transport that brought him to ch'Rihan for the first time in ten years, those qualities were on display for all to see. He chatted amiably with the wife and mother seated to his left; was as courteous as society required to the attendants who served his meal and drink. When not engaged in discussion, he used the time to review what might have been shipping manifests and correspondence. But the carefully cultivated façade concealed beneath it a very different man, one to whom scheming, lies, and death was a way of life. His father, Deletham tr'Argelian, perished under peculiar circumstances during his service to the Empire. This death left his wife, Isha, pregnant and penniless, with few alternatives to provide for her existence. She eked out a living as a seamstress, barely able to afford rent in the larger city. She was eventually forced to the more affordable, but much less secure Iuruth. It was there she died during an attempted robbery. Her son was turned over to a neighbor who offered to care for him. During his youth, the boy had been exposed to many uncouth behaviors, among them prostitution, thievery, and smuggling. A loner from the start, the young tr'Argelian devoted himself to what education he could find -- on the streets and in the classroom. He studied classical arts, literature from second hand bookshops, while also learning well how to fight. As a young man, he worked his way through the ranks of a local criminal organization, eventually managing many of their day-to-day activities...until the Empire turned their attention his way. His hybrid education provided him a background very much of interest to certain organizations within the government: In exchange for the continued freedom to operate, tr'Argelian would provide the occasional odd favor in service to the Empire. It was a good offer for someone of his ilk, offering a measure of upward mobility and profit. But that deal had continued only so far. Eventually, tr'Argelian simply faded into the aether. Rumors of piracy, smuggling, and horrible deaths at the hand of his benefactors circulated among his former associates. No one, however, knew for certain what became of the unusual man from Iuruth following the Dominion War. Thus, when a Rihannsu purporting to be Gaius Iuruth tr'Argelian boarded a transport in the outlands, it perked the interest of certain individuals. They followed his documentation through the wilds, bringing him closer and closer to the capitol planet. And when that Rihannsu – the man in seat four – stepped foot onto ch'Rihan soil for the first time in ten years, they were waiting. "Gaius, my dear, dear friend," said the deep, authoritative voice of Khiy Aenikh. The Tal'Shiar officer gave a wide smile that did not quite meet his dark eyes. "Such an excellent surprise!" "Indeed, Khiy," tr'Argelian replied. Another tall, imposing Rihannsu took position to his left. "Wonderful of au to offer such a warm welcome." Aenikh bowed graciously, a significant glance directed to the man now flanking Gaius. "Nothing but the best for io of our most devoted servants. I was so very intrigued when word reached me that au had boarded a transport bound for home. Au have truly been missed, my friend." "Something of a forced retirement, courtesy of our...friends... in other organizations." "Then we must have a drink, and discuss your absence." "I would be honored, Khiy, of course, but I really must –" The major wrapped an arm around tr'Argelian's shoulders, exerting pressure, even as his compatriot stepped closer. "And I really must insist." Gaius offered his companion a taut smile. "Of course. It would be wonderful to spend time catching up." "I knew au would see it my way." Khiy released his hold on Gaius, waving his hand as he indicated the exit. "After au, my friend." Flanked on his left and right, tr'Argelian readjusted his bag on his shoulder, and headed for the exit. ***

Truth in the Lie CDR Mal Alexander (NPC) LTJG Charlotte Matsumura The isolinear chip hit the desk with startling force. "Consider this my resignation." Commander Malcolm Alexander looked up from his secured terminal screen and blinked as his mind swerved from intelligence reports to the operative now hovering over him. His initial reaction -- a wave of relief at seeing her alive – was instantly shoved aside as he took in her body language: Charlotte Matsumura stood with her feet equidistant, dark eyes flaring. Her shoulders were tense, the muscles in her jaw clenched; even without her auspicious entry, he could feel the anger radiating off of her in waves. "Excuse me – what?" Matsumura folded her arms across her chest and regarded him with narrowed eyes. "You heard me: I quit. I'm done; Intel can find another courier." "Lottie –" "Don't 'Lottie' me, Mal. And while you're at it, you should probably rethink your own career options. There's absolutely no excuse –" "No excuse for what?" "Being caught flat-footed!" She slammed her palms down on the desk, leaning forward. "Not once, not twice, not even three times! Four times now – at least! – we've been caught with our pants down when we should've known something was in the aether. You're the station chief; you're supposed to have the information, and you're supposed to know what's doing. Instead, it's my own regular crew that discovers a cache of Romulan weapons in the middle of some sacred idols; it's my own regular crew that nearly gets killed when Bryiam gets bombed." She remained in position and tilted her head to the side. "And yet I had no inkling – none a'tall. Now that either means you're not keeping me in the loop, or you didn't know. But you're you, and you'd tell me if I were walking into a trap – somehow, someway, you'd let me know. So y'know what that means? That means you didn't know about any of this either. That's a problem. A very big problem." "You think I haven't noticed? You think it's escaped my attention that I'm being left to twist in the wind?" Mal shoved his chair back, strong momentum carrying him to his feet. "I should have assets in place – contacts, informants, a staff -- other operatives! Near as I can figure, that's not on the menu. It's you and me on this particular 'operation.' That's it." "Then no one wants this 'operation' to succeed." Alexander sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He leaned forward on the desk himself, his posture mirroring hers, though his expression softened as he looked her in the eye. "The thought had occurred to me as well. An operation like this – we should have several assets in place, on the ship, on the station; I should be getting regular raw data feeds; more communication on back channels. And even if they chose to low-man it, their choice – no offense – wouldn't be a junior security officer." "I know that. I'm so damned busy doing my day job that I've little chance to worm my way into the captain's good graces. If it were a long-term, high-value target, I could see it. But given the political realities, that's just not plausible; they want actionable intelligence now. You and I both know this isn't the way to handle it." "The problem with that line of thought," Mal began, standing to full height, "is that it leads to one last, very troubling question." He rounded the desk, perching on the forward corner as he folded his arms across his chest. Charlotte held his gaze with her own, eyes steady. She knew the unspoken question that had been lurking in the back of his mind, and voiced it: "If we're not here to do our jobs, then why are we here?" Mal exhaled, releasing the tension that had been building. He nodded. "Exactly." "Y'don't think –" Lottie paused, brow furrowing as her mind churned through the possibilities. She turned and stood beside him, leaning back against the desk. Her right arm brushed against his left. "Y'don't think we're window dressing, do you?" "Window dressing?" "A feint. A ploy. A distraction." "A cover for another operation?" The commander mulled it over. "I've thought about that, but I think it really would be a waste of assets." "How so?" "Well, you're not exactly an underachiever. Your academic record; your psych profile; even the more recent ops we've run – all of them indicate you're more than capable of completing any mission they might hope to assign. And, while I'm a tad long in the tooth, I'm not exactly ready to be put to pasture," Mal explained. "But wouldn't there have to be some level of truth to the lie – some level of competence visible, if we're blown?" A cold feeling settled into the pit of Alexander's stomach. "Or if we're supposed to be blown." Charlotte frowned. "There's always that." Mal's grimace deepened as his mind turned over the possibility: What if we're supposed to be discovered? A timeline of events stretched before him, starting with his meeting with the Deputy Director. He'd been chosen as station chief for a reason – his relationship with Charlotte. Clark knew one of them – himself or Lottie – would figure this out; Clark was betting on Mal's relationship with Charlotte to help keep her under control, to keep her in the fold. That means need-to-know, he thought, and even I didn't need to know. That meant black – very black – and not something he wanted to be caught in the middle of. Not, at least, without knowing what it was. "So...what do we do?" Her question startled him from his trance. He gave a heavy sigh and shook his head. "I don't know. For now, I think our best bet is to proceed as normal. I'll start asking a few discreet questions and you can... well, of course, if you plan on staying?" There was uncertainty in her eyes as she looked to him, mingled with no small amount of trust. She forced a smile and he watched as it grew sincere, matched by an impish twinkle. "Mum's always said I'm too curious for my own good." His heart clenched. "Digging through this will be considerably more dangerous than your chemistry set, Lottie." "I guess we'd better be careful, then, because I'm not letting you do this alone." Her hand came to rest on his elbow. "You know me better than that." Impulsively, Mal unfolded himself and drew her to him. She melded into his embrace after only a slight hesitation, arms around his torso. He allowed himself the luxury to take in her warmth, the scent of her shampoo; to allow himself to show how glad he was she survived Bryiam. It was a long moment before he trusted himself to speak. When he finally found his voice, it was unusually heavy. "I do, love; I do, indeed." ***

Misery Loves Company* LCDR Mark Garrison LTJG Charlotte Matsumura *Note: Takes place immediately following 28 March sim. *** Matsumura quirked a brow at her division officer. "Dare I ask who piddled in your beer?" "Victria, of course." Finishing his shot of whiskey, he reached for the bottle and poured another. His comment acknowledged her suspicions about the two, but she said nothing. Instead, she asked, "Bad furlough, then?" "Ha!" He chuckled, taking another sip. "Bad is a mild word when it comes to her. Disaster, or doomed from the start might be more appropriate. This fool's death trap of a holosuite didn't help matters any." He gestured over to Travis. The not so innocent barkeep attempted his best shocked and innocent face, before moving away to somewhere he couldn't be blamed for all of Mark's woes. Charlotte passed rueful smile to Travis as the barkeep beat his retreat. She then refocused her attention on her division officer. "Well, I can listen, if you care to talk, or I can simply sit here and enjoy my tea, and offer your misery some company. It's your choice, of course." "You're skilled enough to fill both those roles I'd imagine, I haven't seen anything you can't do yet. No talking about vacations, or beaches, or jungles for that matter. I have shore leave yet to spend, and intend to spend it forgetting the last day." With that he finished off his glass, and moved to pour another one, however the nearly empty bottle only produced a tiny sip, which he took with a grunt. Charlotte turned, signalling silently to Travis. He seemed to understand, nodded, then disappeared around the corner. Looking back to Garrison, she shook her head. "Thank you for the compliment; I only wish it were true." She swirled the last of her tea in the bottom of her cup. "Closer inspection would reveal the shortcomings, I assure you." At that moment, the barkeep returned, this time with two cups of tea. Charlotte drained the last of hers as he placed a cup before both herself and Mark. She nodded her thanks before nudging the warm cup toward the senior officer. "I can think of better ways of spending your shoreleave, than drowning your sorrows." He took a sip of the tea, appreciating it against the burn of whiskey. "Hmm, this is good. See, a taste for tea as well. You've got your work cut out for you to prove to me the flaws of Charlotte Matsumura," He let out a small chuckle. "Anyway, what did you have in mind?" "Well, there's always training; and, if things aren't entirely busted between yourself and Victria, then perhaps a little dining and dancing?" She watched him over the rim of her cup. "I get the impression a human-style 'date' might be intriguing to her." "Hmm...No, no Victria. I've learned in the past just to let her be, the pieces usually fall where they need to. Besides, my collar bone is broken, and my hand played the part of tasty treat for a deep sea eel, I'm not in much condition for dancing," He produced the aforementioned hand, and while it had mostly healed, the damage was evident. "That, and I don't dance." Charlotte couldn't hide the surprise that played briefly across her features. Their line of work ensured that he, like most security officers, could endure injuries. This was perhaps beyond the pale, however. She forced a smile. "The dancing -- well, that's a shame. Perhaps you could spend some time learning. As to the injuries," she said, pausing and reaching over the bar for the medkit, "I think I could understand your beverage selection." "No, no, no," He shooed her arm away with his good hand. "I'm fine, and I don't need you doctoring me up in the middle of the Grail, everyone around here snoops and gossips too much." "Besides," he sighed. "Travis would never let me live it down." Charlotte paused, tricorder in hand, brow arched. "And you think he's going to let you live this down?" She gestured to the room at large, as though to indicate Victria, the holosuite, and the bottle of whiskey. He glanced around with a scowl. "No, I suppose not, but why add insult to injury?" Pausing, he refocused his attention to Charlotte. "Not that you're an insult to...err..." Another sigh. "You know what I mean." The younger officer gave a snort. "I think I do." She closed the medkit and sat for a long moment regarding him. "You won't let me treat you here; what are my chances of getting you to medical?" "Slim, but...there is something to be said for the attempt." He smirked, and tapped his glass to the empty bottle, causing the glass to resonate. "Even if I said they'd give you a lolly?" He chuckled. "Charlotte, I'm nearly thirty-three years old. You'll have to find something better then a lolly to intice me." He finished his tea, setting it on the bar with an amused grin. "Pity. You're acting as stubborn as a toddler." She returned the amused grin. It faded slightly as she mentally chose another tack. "How about a failing of Charlotte Matsumura?" "Stubborn as a toddler…sir." He chuckled again, drunk enough not to be bothered by it. "A failing of the lovely Miss Matsumura? Sure, shoot. This should be interesting." Charlotte shook her head. "Not until we get to medical." She nodded to indicate the door, smiling sweetly. "You first." "Oh, you're good. Very good." He grunted as he pushed off the stool, wobbling a bit in his first steps, then leading her out into the promenade once he was sure of his ability to walk. *** Charlotte leaned against the nearby bulkhead, arms folded across her chest. It had been a long walk down to the infirmary -- long enough to leave her second-guessing herself. Why the frell had she volunteered herself in such a way? She sighed inwardly. She knew better than most that Garrison would have suffered through the next few days, possibly caving once they were finally back aboard ship. A wound like that eel bite, however, and the broken clavicle needed immediate attention. She chalked her volunteer effort up to concern for someone who, in a relatively short time, seemed to be becoming a friend. The medical attendant administered a few instructions, wrapping up the visit. As she stood there, absently listening, she wondered what "shortcoming" she would offer as a bribe. Mark emerged, rotating his shoulder for good measure. His hand was back to normal but his disposition hadn't seemed to improve. "Doctors, the annoyance of the galaxy. You know the first thing he says to me? 'Quit drinking'. Quit drinking!" He glanced back towards the closed doors. "If I wanted that, I'd gone and seen a counselor!" She met her division officer with a lopsided smile, falling into step next to him. "He's one to talk. He was three sheets at the table next to us the last time we put in." He let out a good laugh as he walked along in a (mostly) straight line. "See that's what I'd like about you. Victria, she'd lecture, give me that sour frown. You're fun Matsumura, or at least you know when to not argue with your division lead." "Not so much that," Charlotte replied with a snort, "as knowing a lost cause when I see one." She tempered the comment with a grin. "Besides... I figure the headache you'll have tomorrow will lecture well enough on its own." "All good things... Well, I've held up my end of the deal, now its your turn. A real, truthful failing of Charlotte Matsumura, presented by none other then Charlotte Matsumura." He chuckled slightly, apparently thinking that comment witty. "Indeed." They paused before the lift and Charlotte clasped her fingers behind her back. "A true failing of Charlotte Matsumura..." She pursed her lips, mind whirling through all the embarassing moments in her life, through the psych eval Garrison undoubtedly saw in her personnel file. She knew both signalled one, massive universal truth about herself. " I think the headquarters shrink said something about being uneasy in social situations." A nervous laugh escaped her. "Rather like now, I'd suspect." The lift arrived, and the stepped in. Mark took a moment to look her over, seemingly trying to tell if she was being truthful. Once he had his decision, he glanced forward. "Fair enough. In case you haven't noticed, I'm a bit of a loner myself. Never much felt the need for an overabundance of friends, because most of those friends are merely aquantances in the end. If it's any compliment, you hide it well. All those witty retorts and comebacks, I could've pictured you as the life, and center of any party." Charlotte shook her head. "Like you, I've found I've many acquaintances and very few true friends," she said. "The witty retorts and come backs...they work a bit like deflector shields." "Ah," He nodded in understanding. "Only question that comes to mind then, is why tell me? Seems like a rather personal admission. Not quite sure, if our positions were switched, I'd have done the same thing." "Because I'm good at taking chances, just not on people. In order to change that, I have to take a chance on someone who might turn out to be... okay." "Well, glad to know someone thinks I'll turn out okay." He turned to her with a joking smile. "Well, I wasn't expecting something major like that, so I suppose I'll return the favor, so you don't feel like your left hanging out in the wind. A failing of Mark Garrison...hmm." The lift doors opened, depositing them in a hallway. "Ah, I've got one. You may not believe this, but I'm something of a prankster. Sometimes too much for my own good. Remember three weeks ago, when Lieutenant Beckman was flirting with the new ensign on gamma shift, leaned back and his chair gave way?" A chesire grin formed on his face. "That was me. Every few months, I sneak into security in the middle of the night, and mess around with his chair. Why you might ask? Because he leans too much. That, and it's funny." Charlotte chuckled. It had been funny, and not the first time she'd seen Beckman take a fall. He was right -- Beckman did lean too much: in his chair, against the bulkheads, on the said new ensign on gamma shift. "Now I see why you and Travis get on so well." There was a hint of sarcasm in her tone, eyes showing some amusement. They also showed her appreciation of his taking her admission in stride. "Ah Travis. You know, we probably ran over 100 miles in disciplinary runs during our four years in the academy. He's got that quality, that you can despise and admire him at the same time I suppose. Still, I owe him alot." He trailed off, looking a bit uncomfortable, as if there was more he was going to say, but decided against it. "Bail credits?" She raised her brows, attempting to lighten the mood. "Something like that." Mark let out a small smile as they continued to walk. Somehow, in their meandering path after leaving sickbay, the two had found familiar territory: The temporary BOQ -- bachelor officers' quarters. The surroundings reminded Charlotte of her evening plans. Flipping her wrist, she glanced at the time. She still had over an hour before meeting Mal. Which was good -- she found she wasn't necessarily in a hurry to part company with Garrison... And then there was the small fact that he probably shouldn't be left to his own devices at the moment. "My...quarters are around the next turn. Care to come in for a cup of tea?" "Sure," He said nonchalantly, as they turned the quarter. "You'll have to give me the tour, I've never actually used one of these temp quarters. I always stay on Excalibur." Charlotte chuckled. "Not much difference, really," she replied, keying her entry code. The doors parted with a hiss, and she gestured. "A little larger, but equally as spartan." Entering first, she made a direct line for the replicator. "Make yourself at home -- as much as you can, at any rate." She paused over the controls and looked back over her shoulder at him. "What blend would you prefer?" "What you gave me before is fine, unless you want to try to go two for two in guessing my taste in tea," Mark gave her a playful smirk, before roaming about the quarters abit, taking them in. She was right, they weren't much better then Excalibur's. All the more reason to stay on the ship. Walking past her bedroom, he noticed a rather elegant dress laid out on the bed. "Charlotte...don't tell me I'm ruining your plans." Two cups of tea in her hands, Charlotte turned, noting Mark's attention span. She shook her head. "Not in the slightest. I've got over an hour before I have to be anywhere." "Good, I'd hate to have ruined your evening..." Mark trailed off, taking a sip of the tea after Charlotte handed it to him, nodding in approval. "Still, judging by that dress, I'd say whatever is in an hour looks to be important." A playful grin appeared. "Do you have a date, Charlotte? Oh, is it that man you were with in the Grail?" She chuckled. "He's a friend of Papa's, so hardly a date. I think, most of the time, he takes pity on me. A good dance partner is so very hard to find these days." "Ah, well perhaps I'll have to learn to dance yet." He gave her a bit of a smirk, before moving back into the living area, sinking into the couch with a relaxed 'Ahh'. Charlotte passed him his tea. "We could make it a department-wide event. It does help with hand and eye coordination, after all," she commented over the rim of her cup. He chuckled, hoping it was a joke. "God, could you imagine the site of that. We'd look like the goofiest bunch of officers in the fleet." The junior officer struggled to keep her expression casual. "It's either that or the overstuffed sumo suits." She sipped her tea. "Team building and all that?" "Sure, call it team building. They'll all be at each others throats by the end. Tell me something, your not just trying to make me look stupid to steal my job are you?" He said in a joking tone, turning towards her with a grin. "Sorry, sir... But I definitely don't want your job. I have my hands full enough with my own." She gave him a smile. It faded slightly as she diverted her attention to her tea cup before looking back up at him. "Are you going to be all right?" He raised a brow slightly, wondering what role in Excalibur's security department had her hands so full. She didn't seem to be having any issues. "Sure, I'll be fine. I think that damned doctor slipped me something to neutralize some of the alcohol. I suppose you'll be wanting to get ready?" "Fine" didn't quite cut it with her but, as with his past escapades with Travis, Garrison didn't seem inclined to discuss the matter farther. Her lips thinned. "I probably should. But, as a fellow crew mate, I have to make sure you're not going to try and crawl back into the bottle. You might undo all the medical handywork." She gave a smile that didn't hide the concern in her eyes. He gave her a sincere smile, while resting a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry about it. I'm going to take the long back to Excalibur and call it a night. There's plenty of leave left, and I intend to get to it tomorrow, not spend all day nursing a hang over." Charlotte paused, studying his expression. His body language seemed to mirror his sincerity, upper body open as his hand rested on her shoulder. She returned the smile after a long moment. "Be careful out there, Lieutenant." The smile slipped lopsided. "No more holosuites. Well, no more of Travis' holosuites." "Probably no holosuites with Victria would be safe enough, but I see where you're going. He chuckled, and stood, taking a moment to appreciate the starfield out the window. "Well Charlotte, I hope you have a more pleasant evening on the dance floor, than you did, dragging this old drunk around." "Be careful out there." He smirked with a mocking tone. She chuckled. "It's been an...educational...chat with said old drunk. Besides, if I were careful? I'd have joined the sciences." "Good girl." He said with a chuckle, and sauntered out of the quarters, in a mostly straight line. ***

No Pressure CDR Malcolm Alexander (NPC) *** Belief that he was doing the right thing for the greater sake of the Federation had gotten Mal through the roughest days of his twenty-year career. And, on days where he saw the difference, he loved his job. But sometimes doing his job meant knowing things other, normal civilians didn't know... or learning things ahead of most 'fleet officers. Those were the days he hated his job. Today he hated his job. Ah-Windu Corizon, a seasoned, unconventional captain, had taken the Excalibur and her crew on what Headquarters had dubbed a "milk run": They were expected to simply carry supplies and other goods to nearby colonies and labs. The first stop had provided Charlotte with her first courier mission that had – aside from the random camel spit – gone exactly by the numbers. The interested parties were thankful for the info and would reply in kind at a later date. The second stop involved priests and hallucinogenics. Mal figured it was best for all concerned if he didn't record too much on this particular incident. He code-named the location "Berkeley" and thought that said enough. It was afterward when Murphy struck. The almost immediate cessation of message traffic had been an early warning. Afterward, any messages had been scattered and disjointed; there was no regular flow of information. That alone had caused no small amount of concern through command. The story unfolded more as Excal and the surviving members of her crew limped home: Corizon seriously injured, zombies, mad scientists, and a killer octopus. Mal could only offer a dark chuckle as he realized the vampire was already on crew. Charlotte's preliminary report was more remarkable in what it didn't say. Sentence fragments, slipping grammar, and missing punctuation spoke volumes about her state of mind. That realization alone sent a knot roiling in his gut. She'd been injured. The duty roster showed her pulling more than double shifts, so she'd been tired, too. Paired with the reality of lost crewmates, as well as the violation of being boarded – it was a lot for an agent, fresh off the farm...even one as grounded as Charlotte. Her debrief was going to be difficult. If, of course, he could crack her defensive outer layer. Mal frowned. A defensive outer layer, he thought, that was likely to be a few shades thicker after their last...moment. Wasn't that what he was trying to avoid? Sighing, he rubbed his face wearily, then glanced at the clock. The Excalibur would be docking in less than an hour. That meant he had a little more than that hour to try and figure a way in – a way that preserved their friendship and their respective positions. He tossed back the last of his tea and shook his head. "Right," he said aloud. "No pressure."

Time and Distance CDR Malcolm Alexander (NPC) LTJG Charlotte Matsumura Note: Written originally in October, this takes place after the little soiree on the Promenade, prior to our departure on our current "milk run." *** Malcolm Alexander looked up from his LCARS terminal, surprised by the silence that suddenly engulfed his quarters. For the past few hours, after leaving the Promenade, he and Charlotte Matsumura had kept up a steady stream of conversation. Topics had ranged from mutual experiences through their lives, to training, and what might await her, further down the road. But for some reason, the cheerful background chatter had simply...stopped. He furrowed his brow and directed his attention to the sofa. Clad in her evening gown, bare feet propped on his coffee table and shoes discarded onto the floor beside her, was Charlotte. Her dark hair framed her features in waves, released from the retro style, eyes closed as she reclined. He watched as her chest rose and fell rhythmically. She'd fallen asleep in mid-sentence. It had been a long day, he reasoned, and a glance at the time confirmed it. Training, dancing, and a bit of alcohol had likely amplified the exhaustion she felt after pulling several security shifts prior to docking. He couldn't blame her for falling asleep, really. He only wished she had made it back to her quarters first. Rising from his seat, he crossed and lowered himself to the sofa beside her. He very gently brushed a strand of hair from her face; his fingers strayed softly over her cheekbones and registered the soft warmth of her skin. She was beautiful, this girl who'd grown up before his eyes. Warm, vital, full of life, full of expectations. She was yet to be plagued with the nightmares that plagued him, but knew that they would come in time. He shook his head, swallowing back a knot. He'd gone through so much of that alone, not even sharing all with his best friend and partner; it was just too much. And he couldn't bring himself to lay another burden on a friend with his own worries. Mal vowed that things would be different for Lottie. She would have her secrets, for certain; there were limits to even his access. But he would be there for her – an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on, arms to hold her when needed – in the same way he once hoped someone else would be for him. He could understand her pain, and might be able to help her cope. It was better than watching her slip into the distant cynic he had become. He sealed the vow with a light kiss to her forehead. She smiled but didn't wake. It was only when he scooped her into his arms to carry her to the bedroom that she stirred. Her brow creased. "Mal?" "Shh," he said. "You fell asleep on the sofa; I thought you might be more comfortable in the bed." A rueful smile played across his lips as he lowered her to the mattress, then drew back to pull the covers over her. "But you –" "But me, nothing. The sofa's just fine for me; I've slept on worse." He brushed his fingertips gently across her cheek. "Get some sleep, love." Charlotte said nothing further. She merely snuggled down under the comforter, her answering smile fading as she drifted off to sleep once again. Mal stood by the bedside for a long while, content to watching her sleep. His eyes occasionally drifted to the inviting, empty space beside her. Finally, when the temptation became far too great, he shoved his hands into his pockets and turned to the living room. It's going to be a very long night, he thought. Good thing the sofa's comfortable... *** Charlotte awoke later the next morning, surrounded by a familiar medley of scents – shampoo, aftershave, and cologne – all of which belonged to Malcolm Alexander. A cursory glance around revealed her to be in his quarters, in his bed. How had she...? Her mind swam with memories: Dinner, dancing, drinking...and sleeping. On the sofa. In mid-sentence. She chuckled. Must have put me to bed, she thought. Her hand reached out for the cold, empty pillow beside her. And must have taken the sofa for himself. It was understandable, she reasoned. Anything else would have been...improper. Stretching like a cat, she then sat up and swung her feet to the floor while tossing back the covers. "Computer, lights – twenty percent." Dim, yellow light filled the space, stretching thinly into the living room beyond. The hem of her dress, tangled across her thighs, dropped to the floor with little effort as she stood, padding to the next room. She could make out the familiar form of the commander, sprawled out on the sofa, his rhythmic breathing the only sound filling her ears. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that he had removed the overshirt and tie, remaining in the base layer and slacks. The white crewneck shirt draped well over his chest, and the short sleeves offered a glimpse of the wiry, well-defined muscles of his arms. It was a rare sight for her, Charlotte reflected. It seemed that every time she did see him, was in some type of uniform – 'Fleet or karate – both of which covered his arms fully. A lopsided grin twitched across her lips. She found she rather liked what she saw. She found she also liked the way his features had relaxed in sleep. The tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes told of his wicked sense of humor, but there was always a barrier, a wall, beyond the smile, behind which he seemed to be contemplating the galaxy's problems. The result was the worry lines so deeply creased his brow. But they were gone now, hinted at only in shadow. He looked a generation younger without them, she thought. Her eyes traced every detail, saving the image for later reflection. Charlotte didn't want to disturb him; by the same token, she didn't want to leave without saying goodbye. He'd gone well above and beyond the call of duty, escorting her around the previous night and she felt he deserved her gratitude. She also knew that, if she didn't say goodbye, he would worry when he woke and a found her gone. Kneeling beside the sofa, she reached out and smoothed a hand over his unruly dark hair. Her voice was barely above a whisper when she spoke: "Mal?" A wide smile curved his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the effort. He slowly opened his eyes. "Mmm. Morning." The warmth she saw in the hazel depths caused her stomach to flutter. "Morning, sleepyhead," she replied. She cleared her throat, attempting to beat back the heat rising to her cheeks. "I-I didn't want to disturb you, but I... didn't want to leave without telling you –" "S'okay," he replied, interrupting her as he struggled to shake the cobwebs from his brain. The warmth in his eyes faded as more alertness flooded his senses. "I probably need to go check message traffic." She remained kneeling beside him as he sat up, bringing his feet to the carpet. "You should go back to bed and get a few more hours sleep at least. It was a late night." The warmth may have subsided, but the impish gleam had not. "I was never in my bed." "And whose fault is that?" The playfulness, the seductive undertone in her voice visibly surprised him; it stunned her. Certainly, she'd been thinking that, but thinking and saying were supposed to be two different things. Her mouth gaped as her brain struggled to catch up. "I-I mean you didn't have to take me to your bed—to bed –" She stopped, drawing a deep, cleansing breath even as her cheeks burned. "I-I would've been fine on the sofa." "Shhh," Mal said, pressing his index finger to her lips. "It's okay, love. I get your meaning." His eyes darted over her head toward the clock. "It's just after eight. You should probably get back to your own quarters, anyway." Charlotte nodded. She tried to ignore the warmth creeping through her at his touch. "I was going...but I wanted to thank you." "Thank me?" "For last night. You're my station chief, my father's friend; you didn't have to take me around like that, but you did anyway. And I had a wonderful time." She smiled up at him. "So...thank you." "Ah, but thank you. It's not every night a codger like me gets such exquisite company." "You're not, you know." "Not? Not...welcome?" Charlotte laughed. The sound broke the rising tension, flooding her with relief like a cool wave. "Not a codger. Granpere is a codger. You're not even approaching codger status," she replied. Mentally, she apologized to her Grandfather Matsumura...even if he was a bit of an odd duck. With a sigh, she pushed herself to her feet. "See you later?" Mal rose and stood opposite her, nodding. The relief she briefly felt vanished as his hand came to rest against her cheek. Darkened hazel eyes sought hers, his brow once again creased with concern. Her gaze slowly met his and an eternal moment passed. What was he looking for? Could he hear her heart pounding in her ears the way she could? Was it – was it even possible he could care for her more than just as his best friend's daughter? Her heart leapt to her throat as he leaned forward; his lips seemed to be following a trajectory toward her own. As her eyes closed, she felt the gentle, warm pressure of his lips as they met...her forehead? A wave of embarrassment crashed over her. Of course, she thought. Best friend's daughter. Despite her disappointment, she was thankful for the smile he offered her, the concern in his eyes as he walked her to the door. "Be careful out there, Lottie." Charlotte forced a smile. "I will. Good night, Mal." Stepping out into the corridor, she wanted nothing more than to run – to sprint as fast as she could to the lift, to the ship. Spending so much time with him was bad, she realized; it was too tempting to project her own affections onto him. His attentions to her were platonic, protective, she told herself, and had to keep repeating. Her mind whirled. Surely he hadn't noticed how pathetically she had acted. If he had, he would have pulled her aside, admonished her for the silliness of a schoolgirl crush at her age. "That's all it could be," she muttered, stepping into the lift. The doors slipped closed and she leaned wearily against the wall of the pod. She drew deep breaths and tried to focus her mind. For now, she had to find time and distance between them...and fight the realization that maybe – possibly – this was no longer a simple schoolgirl crush. *** The doors slid closed behind her, and Mal leaned forward, resting his head against the cool metallic surface as a knot formed in his stomach. Was there any way she couldn't have known what he was contemplating, he wondered. But Charlotte hadn't flinched, hadn't even tried to pull away; she simply stood there and stared back. It was only in retrospect that he could recognize the jumble of emotions he saw in her eyes: The same dodgy, chaotic mess he felt. "Oh, bugger," he muttered. For the first time since Charlotte arrived for duty, he found himself glad she was shipping out again so soon. He was going to need the time and distance to figure out how to approach this new not-so-little wrinkle.

Pendulum, Part 3 Virginia Lewis (NPC) CDR Malcolm Alexander (NPC) *** Ginny Lewis switched off the holoprojector, looking to the clock beside it. Bright red numbers announced it was one-thirty. It had been some twelve hours since she last saw her fiancé, some twelve hours since he'd promised to leave Operations...for her. A knot twisted in her stomach. Consumed by her own fear, she had used it and Mal's own raw emotions to manipulate him into that vow. It was an effort she wasn't proud of, even if it hadn't been with malice aforethought. She only knew how much she cared for him, and how much she feared losing him. Poor excuse, she thought, but powerful motivation. Regardless of her motivation, Ginny knew that forcing Mal out of Ops before he was truly ready wasn't fair to him. Once Ronin recovered, once the initial reports were done, and once the dust settled, Mal would be fine; he would want back in. Could she live with that knowledge knowing that he'd never say anything? As an attorney, she knew lesser problems ended marriages. Something this essential would blow theirs wide open. It was an unpleasant thought. More unpleasant was the thought of being like Elisabeth Matsumura – always waiting, and never sure when or if her husband was coming home. It wasn't that Ginny didn't like or respect Liz – quite the contrary, really. She just firmly believed there was something in Liz's personality that made her better suited to that life, and she knew she didn't share that same trait. Her eyelids burned, and tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She couldn't live with Ops, and Mal couldn't live without it. The knot in her stomach tightened with the realization of what had to happen. Another minute ticked by, the numbers now an indistinguishable red mass in the darkness. In that moment, the apartment door opened, a swath of light bisecting the room. She watched as Mal entered, ordering the lights to half. He spotted her on the sofa and stopped cold. "Ginny." The lawyer read the panic in his eyes, the way his mouth gaped as his mind scrambled for the right words. His reaction told her he'd reached the same conclusion she had...and the knot in her stomach suddenly turned to a knife through the heart. "You can't leave Operations." Mal shook his head. Apology, love, and pain radiated from his eyes; his lips were drawn taut. "No. And I –" "And you can't ask me to wait for you." Again, Alexander shook his head. "It's not fair to you. Not if you don't, well, want to." Ginny swallowed. There was relief amidst the pain – relief in the realization that he truly loved her, even if they would be parting ways. It was a small comfort, but later...later it might provide a foundation for friendship. For now... Slipping the engagement ring from her finger, she crossed the room and placed it gently into his palm. Her fingers curled around his as she closed his hand around it. "Goodbye, Mal. And good luck." "Thank you," he managed. His voice was rough when he spoke; she couldn't look him in the eye. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on top of her head. Without looking back, Virginia Lewis stepped out of the apartment, leaving her former fiancé alone in the dark. ***

A Learning Experience* LT Mark Garrison ENS Charlotte Matsumura (*Takes place just prior to the previous sim.) *** It was one of those weeks. After the exhiliration of battle came the aftermath. Endless reports on tactics and crew efficiency. Damage surveys. Letters to relatives, and dealing with shifting the crew around, who nearly a fourth had their living spaces rendered unlivable by the Scorpiad. Mark himself had taken to sleeping in ten-forward, which was the closest available area to the bridge. He could feel the tension on the ship, especially from his own department, who held themselves most accountable for the outcome of that battle. It started with snippiness and quickly evolved to snide comments and borderline insubordination. Having to cram everyone into less space didn't help things. Mark wasn't about to allow the unleashing of a bunch of angry officers on Camelot, so he did what seemed the most sense. He let them take it out on each other. Nearly half the off-duty department lined cargo bay 2 in this impromptu sparring session. Challenge whomever you like, and leave the pent up urge to do something on the mat. In a far corner of the bay, several portable heavy bags had been set up for personnel to warm up, prior to stepping into the ring. Freshly released from medical, Charlotte Matsumura stood before one of those bags, adjusting the wristbands of her sparring gloves. She fixed her gaze on the bag before her with harsh intensity. Finally satisfied with the fit of her gloves, she dropped into a sparring stance, biting down on her mouth guard. It would be another hour or more before her station chief would be prepared to debrief her. Another hour. Waiting. Constantly...waiting. Waiting for the away team; waiting for the attack; waiting to be called into action; and then waiting to be permitted to leave the ship. A low growl escaped her lips, and she lashed out first with a front kick, followed immediately by a forward lunge punch. The bag shifted backward significantly with the force of impact. "Hurry up and wait," she muttered around her mouthpiece. She was tired of hurry up and wait. She was also tired of the ambiguity surrounding her commanding officer. Nothing he did seemed to have a clear purpose; he seemed, at best, to be navigating by gut instinct or, at worst, by the seat of his pants. It was certainly an effective tactic if one was attempting to throw off potential investigators or enemies. But was it intentional? Or was it simply the way the cards were falling into place? Either way, it didn't seem the CO had any clue how he would handle arising situations from one moment to the next. It made loyalty very hard to develop. Mark was watching the fight, and watching the crowd. Most of what he'd seen so far wasn't much to perk his interest. He was becoming curious as to who might choose him if their name was pulled, or who he'd pick if he should be so lucky. While Garrison had designed this event without himself in mind, the prospect of a good fight was hard not to get excited about. As his eyes traveled the room he noted Matsumura trying to kill one of the practice bags. She certainly had enough aggression, and he was curious as to her skills when put to the test. He smirked as he returned his attention to the fight. Perhaps luck would draw his name. A few more rounds with the bag, working through some of her basic attacks, and Charlotte could feel her blood pumping. Sweat began to bead across her brow, and her heart was thumping strongly in her chest. She had not been at all sure she wanted to deal with the impromptu sparring session that seemed to be forming around her; she was even less sure she wanted to participate in the garish display of ability in the makeshift ring behind her. What she was sure of, however, was that she needed an outlet, she needed control. On Earth, she would have retreated to the dojo. There was no dojo here. Cargo Bay 2 would simply have to do for now. With a thud the slightly bloodied crewman hit the deck. The crowed cheered and several people passed their won and lost bets. The winner graciously pulled the other man back off and they limped off the mat together. Mark had no idea if it had helped them, but it was a heck of alot faster then waiting outside Mashchenko's office. A few minutes later after the roar had dimmed Mark had moved over to a large box. The crowd grew silent as Mark picked a name, looking it over twice before raising a brow and addressing them. "Well, looks like it's my turn to get in the ring." His attention immediately turned to Charlotte. "It looks like you're about to tear that thing off its mount, Ensign. Would you care for something that punches back?" He smirked at her. She, and anyone else, of course, had the right to refuse, so he felt a bit of goading in order. Goading was something that might have worked...had she been anyone other than Ronin Matsumura's daughter. True, she lacked the overwhelming sense of calm her father always seemed to exude, but she had learned that falling prey to such tactics often led to a quick and embarrassing defeat. She could handle a little teasing at the hands of her division officer. On the other hand, there was nothing like practical experience to provide lessons learned. This was especially true in martial arts. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time -- such as when a well-placed, well-powered kick landed -- taught one quick reflexes and better defense. These were things one didn't learn by sparring with a heavy bag. Charlotte placed her hands against her thighs, bringing her heels together, feet at a forty-five degree angle. With the ghost of a smile flickering across her features, she bent at the waist, bowing to Garrison. Her eyes never left his. He replicated the bow, and then turned towards the ring. He very much doubted that Matsumura would predict his judo like style of martial arts. He also doubted that she knew Mark had the honor of losing to Ronin Matsumura at a martial arts tournament on Earth several years ago. The father Matsumura had pushed Mark to his limit, for which Mark had no shame. It was only there that you could become better. By the time he'd reached the ring, a full grin was painted on his face. He was sure Ronin had trained her well. Now all that remained was to see how far he could push her, and how far she could push him. Charlotte reached the ring, adjusting her gloves. The cheshire grin Garrison was sporting left her feeling somewhat unsettled...as though he knew the punch line of a joke she'd missed entirely. Her own expression was properly schooled: neutral -- passive, even -- with only the slightest hint of amusement. There was no way she would give her division officer the satisfaction. Swallowing, she fought back the adrenaline surging through her. Maintaining a clear head would be essential to gauging his abilities and matching his skills. By now his eyes were locked with hers. Mark dropped into his stance, taking one last deep breath to steady himself. The crowd, having picked their sides and made their bets began to make some noise. All that however faded away when Lt. Benson rang the bell, signaling the start of the fight. They slowly circled each other, looking for the first strike. Despite his hot headed attitude, Mark was a patient fighter. He'd wait for her to make a mistake before committing himself. Hands in guarding position, Lottie watched as he changed his own stance, taking a deep breath. She made note of that fact, filing it away for future reference. She also noted the uncharacteristic patience she read in his eyes; it was not unlike what she had seen, sparring with her father and Mal. So he's waiting for me to make my move, is he? A wry grin twitched across her lips. Eyes sparked with mischief, she feinted slightly, as though to jab with her leading hand and pushing forward with a short bounce. As Mark watched her approach, and jab outwards he smirked. There was no commitment in her eyes. He had doubted her to openly attack on the first move, so he simply parried and side stepped her. She was fast however, causing him to take a couple steps father back then he usually would. That same cheshire grin showed on his face again. By now he was convinced the young Matsumura would provide an interesting fight. She had read him well, she was sure; the grin only convinced her of that fact. And he had definitely widened the distance between them, making it more difficult to reach out with a quick strike. It was a smart defensive move and, once they were out of the ring, she would take it as a compliment. For now, it meant revising her own strategies a bit. Pushing in quickly, closing the gap in a blink, she reached out with a snapping front kick. Not allowing herself to pause, she rotated her hips and immediately turned the front kick into a snapped side kick, aimed somewhere around the ear. Her hands remained up in a guarded position as she watched him, the same amused gleam still in her eyes. She was fast -- faster then he'd expected. While he was preparing to parry and sweep her front kick she'd rotated and found him unprepared. The only thing he could do to avoid being kicked in the head was to throw his forearms up to block the kick. He managed to stop some of the momentum, but not without her forcing his arms to his head in a decent blow, causing him to stagger back a bit. The look of surprise on his face was evident but the grin only grew. Charlotte watched him stagger, wondering for less than a split second if she should press her advantage. His arms were up slightly, leaving his mid-section somewhat vulnerable beneath some very pointed elbows, and she knew her speed had caught him off guard. Her first instinct was to follow through with another front kick -- it would have maintained her distance, while taking advantage of the brief vulnerability. On the other hand, she reasoned, he might be expecting another kick. Acting on near-instinct, before she lost her advantage, she dropped into a low front stance, pushing in. Her right arm rose to guard as her left charged forward and reached for a strike to the ribs. Her blow was indeed powerful, but Mark had intentionally left his elbows up longer then he needed, and she took the bait. Rather then take the safe bet with a kick she moved in towards his ribs. As her arm moved in he grabbed the side of it, while using the other hand to push against her blocking shoulder. At the same time, his foot swung out and caught the back of her stepping one. With instinctual ease he pulled her leg out, and pushed on the blocking shoulder, dropping her to the mat. She strongly suspected he was going to be a sneaky bastard, and was not disappointed. Still caught off guard by the move, Charlotte recovered quickly, breaking her fall as she made contact with the mat. She rolled instantly away, giving herself more time to recover and react. Arching her back, she rose up off of the floor, pushing off with her hands and feet, using her abs to bring herself upright. Mark took a step back himself, allowing her to recover and set herself. His grin wasn't as large, if only for worrying about having a tooth knocked out now that the fight had begun in ernest, but he was obviously still enjoying himself. This game of human chess was finally unfolding, and he was very interested to see how she'd handle getting thrown to the mat. Would she become frustrated and press the attack, possibly making a mistake? Or would she fall back and attempt to give him some of his own medicine? He was very interested in meeting the real Charlotte Matsumura, the one who would show herself when all semblance of rank and authority were removed. The real Charlotte Matsumura, however, had more issue with her pride than with rank and authority. She had taken a chance, revealing some of her own style, and it had come back to bite her. Past experience with her father rang through her head: "Don't focus on the last shot. Focus on the next." It was advice he used frequently, from the dojo to the archery range, telling his student to move on, not to dwell on failure or less than stellar performance. Taking that advice, Charlotte dropped back to a safe but workable distance to watch and wait for Mark to make his own move. After giving her a few moments, Mark pressed the attack again. He paced towards her. Even as he closed in however, his posture remained coiled, ready to spring in defense. Always watching her move, he waited for an opportunity to exploit and use against her. Charlotte watched him -- his footwork, his ready stance. He was being guarded, more so than she expected, and relying on her to make another mistake. Inwardly, she grimaced. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me, she thought. It was his turn to make a move. She watched him with determination in her eyes, intermingled with amusement as she feinted, hoping to provoke him. From studying her last feint, he was fairly confident this was what she was doing again, so rather than defend, he rushed the attack. With her defenses down he closed the gap quickly; he grabbed her arm, pulling her closer still. With the other he reached around her side, and as he pulled her in, he twisted and used the momentum to toss her in classic Judo hip throw. Recovering quickly from her fall, her eyes narrowed as she regarded Garrison. She could hold her own with her father, and with Mal, both of whom she gauged to be a tad more proficient than the Excal security chief. So why did she keep going down quicker than an Orion slave girl? She knew the reality of the situation: Despite all her training, she knew her father and Mal, knew their tells, knew their styles. She also knew that, in the field, things were rarely as cut and dry as they had been in the dojo. This would make good practice... if she didn't continue to fight like a bloody 4th kyu. Channeling her frustration, she ducked, crouched, and swept, hooking her foot just above Garrison's heel. Not at all expecting her latest move, she had little difficulty dropping him on the mat next to her with an "Oof!" However, rather then seek distance again he grabbed onto her left arm, attempting to position her into an arm lock. Grappling had never been a strong suit. It was, in fact, one of her short comings, and one she tried to rectify with hours of extra practice during her time on The Farm. The best defense, she reasoned, was not to get into the situation in the first place. That attempt had failed, and so now she had to deal with him down on the mat. Garrison's arm locked down over hers, making it impossible for her to sit back and create her own lock. This was where her flexibility should pay off, she thought. Wriggling her foot up under his linked arms, she exerted torsion and force at uncomfortable angles to try and force his grip. He grimaced as she pushed against him. Mark had a very high tolerance for pain, but he could feel his grip giving out. Rather then let her break it and have him at the disadvantage he released her and rolled back to safety. The adrenaline had really started to flow, and he had to fight the urge to press in another attack. "You're not too bad, Ensign." Garrison decided with a mix of sincerity and sarcasm. The crowed seemed to think so as well, as he noticed the impassioned cheers and heckling for the first time since the bell had rang. "Feel like calling it quits?" Charlotte shook her head, chuckling at Garrison. It was a fairly even match, she noted, thinking that they could keep fighting to a draw. Still, she wasn't quite ready to call it. "Almost, sir; almost," she replied, remaining in her guarded stance. "Then forgive me if I don't hold back." He shot her a smirk before springing forward. He feinted a kick by raising his right knee, and when she moved her guard lower to block it, Mark punished her with a hard punch to the jaw. The fight had shown him that she was plenty capable when it came to technique, but he had to know how she took a punch as well. Taking her lick, Charlotte reeled only a split second before reacting. With the instinct learned over many years of study, she pushed forward, reaching in with a hard, fast jab to the center of Garrison's face. His head blew back for a moment, before he recovered and locked eyes with her again, now sporting a bloodied nose. Both of his hands grabbed onto her shoulders, holding her as best as he could while his right knee swung up and into her side. Matsumura grunted with the force of the impact, realizing somewhere in the back of her mind that the attending physician this shift was just going to love her. She had to focus on getting through to that point, however. Bringing her arms up through his, she popped them outward, palms up, breaking his grip. She then applied knife-hand chops to either side of the neck, following up with an elbow to the sternum as she dropped into a balanced, wide leg stance. Immediately, she shifted backwards, bringing herself back up to a guarding stance. Mark staggered back, his hand gingerly covering the spot on his chest where Charlotte had struck him. He stared her down, and was about to attack when the bell rang. He nearly jumped from the interruption, and sighed as he looked over to Benson, who was tapping his wrist to indicate the time. He frowned as he met Matsumura's gaze before clearing his throat. "Alright people, let's pack it up. We have less then an hour before we reach Camelot, and there's still work to be done." Eyes holding his, Charlotte drew herself to her full height, her hands against the fronts of her thighs. She bent at the waist, honoring her division officer with a bow. "Arigatou gozaima######a," she said. Her jaw throbbed with the effort. Mark took a deep, cleansing breath before bowing as well, and by the time he was upright again, he had his usual aloof smile again. "You performed well. As worthy a challenge as I've had in a while." "Thank you, sir...though it would seem each session always reminds me that I am forever a student." A faint, lopsided smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "We're always learning..." He gave her a nod. "Actually, come to think of it, there's something I wanted to show you. Can you spare a few minutes, or do you need the doctor to check that out?" He gestured towards her jaw with a playful smirk. Charlotte massaged her jaw a bit. "It can wait. Besides, now you've piqued my curiosity." *** ((OOC: The language filter strikes again: Charlotte is thanking Mark for the sparring match, using the traditional Japanese phrase we use in the dojo. ))

By Any Other Name LCDR Rue Wydown ENS Charlotte Matsumura *** With thoughts of her conversation with Lieutenant Garrison still turning through her mind, Charlotte Matsumura stepped out of the lift and made her way into sickbay, gingerly probing the area of her jaw that had taken his last strike. The lieutenant had proven himself a very worthy opponent in the ring, and seemed to be respectable as a division officer: He had been there, done that, and that bode well for his experience in actual situations. Whether or not she would be able befriend him, only time would tell. A large portion of that would depend entirely on how she ended up reading their illustrious commanding officer. In a final quiet moment after the chaos of the previous week, the CMO could be found talking to herself as she paced a cubical in main sickbay with a PADD, rattling off a disjointed checklist. "Check in with station med staff? Check. Prepped nekkid Trill for transfer? Check. Deflated the slimy git's ego? Check. Empted Mace's coffers during poker night? Check. Plans to spend illgotten gains? Ummm...still not done yet, luv." Rue Wydown frowned as she started scribbling. "Can't let that happen." Matsumura spotted the movement in her peripheral vision and turned, finding Dr. Wydown pacing the floor with her PADD. "Excuse me, Doctor Wydown?" Rue rolled her head in the direction of the voice, then broke out in a cheeky grin out of habit. "Oi!' She squinted at the young woman for a moment. "Security, right? Walking punching bags, you lot." She teased. "Whot can I do for you?" Charlotte chuckled, wincing as she tried to smile. "Let's just say I ended up on the business end of Lt. Garrison's front punch." She turned and allowed the overhead lights to wash over the jawline. "I doubt it's broken, but there's some damage. I thought I'd leave the full diagnosis to the professionals." "Perhaps you've got more brain cells in ye than some of those other yahoos." She motioned to a biobed. "Give me two ticks and we'll have ye right as rain." She set aside her PADD then grabbed a tricroder off the side table. "Name, luv?" The patient hopped up onto the bed, feet dangling to one side. "Matsumura; Charlotte Matsumura." "Came on the Union right before we left the station, aye?" She started the scan, head to toe, talking idly as she worked. "Not bad, not bad." Another soft mutter under her breath before she appeared to be addressing Matsumura again. "Whot you think so far?" "It's an interesting lot... but I don't feel as though I know enough to pass any sort of judgment yet. Especially after seeing how, well, unpredictable things have been." Her eyes followed the flashing lights of the probe, with occasional glances to the tricorder in Rue's hand. "Better get used to unpredictable, luv. That's life in the 'Fleet. Unless ye step in it, and end up on some bloody listening post in the middle of nowhere. Then...well...I'd rather shoot myself." She glanced at the tricorder as she put away the wand. "Nothing here that'll kill ye, mate. Just a few bumps and bruises, strains, sprains, etc. Ye want something for the pain?" Charlotte chuckled. "Yes, well... I had wondered if I hadn't already stepped in it, to get this assignment, in the far reaches of the known universe." She tried to smirk, but was rewarded with a twinge from her jaw. "And yes, something for the pain would be lovely." Wydown headed to the medical cabinet to retrieve a hypospray and med canister. "So where you from, mate? Earth?" "Yeah. I grew up in San Fran, but Mum was from London, and Dad is from this really traditional Japanese family." Thinking about her parents, Matsumura shook her head. "East meets West in the most interesting of ways." Rummaging around in the cabinet for a moment, the doctor came up with the canister she wanted after a moment. "So why the 'Fleet?" "Papa was in the 'Fleet -- as long as I could remember, actually. All that rubbish about duty, honor; king and country, I suppose rubbed off on me. It didn't help that he had a best friend, always around, that was active duty, as well. I sort of grew up idolizing them." Rue cast a glance behind, grinned then slammed the canister into the hypospray. She returned to the biobed twirling the hypospray absentmindly in her hand. "A wee bit of hero worship, hmm?" She laughed softly. "Neck please, mate." She pantimined what she wanted Charlotte to do by tilting her own neck. "A tad, I suppose. Don't regret it at all. Besides... I got to learn to blow things up. That kind of thing is worth the hassle." She tilted her head, exposing her neck for the hypo. "Well, mostly." The doctor snorted, depressing the hypospray into her neck. "You like things that go boom, hmm?" "My area of expertise. My parents made the mistake of buying me a chemistry set when I was a girl. Ended up missing eyebrows a few times, but it was enough to instill a lifetime love of large, incendiary events." A wry gleam danced in dark eyes. "Lucky you came out of in unscathed. Well...minus the eyebrow of course." She grinned, pocketing the hypospray. "A little jiggery-pokery with the regenerator and I'll have you out of here in two ticks." She picked up the device, starting with the jaw bruise. "Thanks. A friend is meeting me at the station and I'm afraid if I show up looking like this, he'll cart me home to Mum and Papa." "Don't worry, he won't notice a thing." Rue grinned, working with the regenerator. "Protective, your friend?" Matsumura shrugged one shoulder. "Can be. Probably something to do with the fact that he's known me since I was an insignificant speck." "Sounds like me ex." Rue paused. "Well, not the protective type. More like me knowing him since he was an insignificant speck." Giggling at her own private joke. "Arm please." She motioned. Charlotte complied, offering a slight smile. "Papa probably made him promise to keep an eye on me while he was here." She shook her head. "Trusts him with his life, he does...and with mine." "Whot? You need a babysitter. At your age?" She squinted as she worked on one of the gashes on the arm. "Hardly. Still, I'm the only daughter, and we never really grow up in our parents eyes, do we?" "Guess not." She grinned, snapped off the regenerator. "Any other aches and pains?" Matsumura massaged her jaw, enjoying the freedom of movement without pain. "Not at the moment. And hopefully not again for a very long time. No offense, Doctor, but I'm not exactly fond of medical attention." "Ye aren't me first. Ye won't be me last." Rue grinned cheekily. "No offense taken." She motioned to the floor. "Off ye go then. Unless you need something else?" "Right as rain." Slipping off of the biobed onto her feet, Charlotte decided it was past time for a shower. "Thank you, Doctor." "No problem." The doctor packed up her equipment. "By the way, whot's your babysitter's name?" She smirked. "Just so I know who'd carted ye back home when you don't show up to your shift t'morrow." "Commander Malcolm Alexander. Though Papa is the only one who calls him Malcolm...and Mum, when he's in trouble with her." The ensign smirked. "Which can be pretty often." Rue's eyebrows quirked, calucated odds and frequency of name cominbinations in a universe this big, then she shook her head. "Naaaaah." The CMO tossed her tricorder back onto the tray and picked up her PADD. "You have fun with your Mal." Charlotte fought the blush that threatened, feeling the warmth begin to creep up the back of her neck. "Yes, well... Thank you, Doctor Wydown." She readjusted the towel on her shoulder, then turned and beat a hasty exit. ***

Superficial ENS Charlotte Matsumura *** ENS Charlotte Matsumura, late of the Bajoran Militia, stood in her quarters, considering her reflection with a critical eye. The tan uniform had been replicated admirably, with nearly the precision of a Saville Row original: Shoulder seams lined up properly, a perfect hem on her sleeves, and the odd 31" inseam for her otherwise average frame. Despite the fit, it really was a bland bit of work, she thought. It was made even more so by the monochromatic backdrop of her own Japanese heritage: tanned skin, dark hair, brown eyes. She could just… blend in, disappear against the drab. Those were the superficial thoughts she tried to focus on, the ones undoubtedly shared with many of her fellow crewmembers. Her steady gaze, however, remained on the unfamiliar pip at her collar – the circle and sweeping disk of an ensign in the Bajoran Militia. The latest orders put her in something more than a simple moral quandary. As a Starfleet officer, following the orders of her CO -- Malcolm Alexander for Intel purposes -- she was covered. She was reporting information from a Fleet officer to a fleet officer, about ongoing Fleet matters. Commissioned as she was now in the Bajoran Militia, however, meant her collection activities for Starfleet could, despite alliances and treaties, be considered espionage by a court martial. While not necessarily punishable by death, the prospect was still enough to give the rookie operative pause. A brief one, at least. Straightening, she regarded the full view once again. Wearing the Bajoran uniform was, like the drab color – superficial. It would undoubtedly allow them to "blend in" somewhere, ease some portion of their next maneuver. Her loyalties had not shifted; she was still a daughter of the Federation: She would maintain her orders to observe and record. The reports would simply have to wait until her commission returned to the proper service; with the order for radio silence, she couldn't risk discovery. It was not uncommon, after all, for some operatives to lose contact while on deep cover assignments. She only wished there were a way to let Mal know she was fine. Her eyes drifted over the lines of her uniform one last time, with a sigh. It would have to do. ***

Compromise CDR Malcolm Alexander (NPC) *** Malcolm Alexander stood at the operations lounge window watching the stars long after the USS Union disappeared beyond in a blinding flash of warp speed. Eighteen months of preparation – of selecting support personnel, reviewing previous intel reports, traveling long distances – had led to this: A few, scant hours with his newest operative before sending her out into the breech. It hardly seemed worth the effort. There was so much to say, so much Charlotte had yet to learn. There was no substitute for experience, but he felt he could have conveyed at least some lessons, if only he'd had more time. Of course, the biggest lesson was one she already knew: Follow your instincts, but back it up with logic where possible. For many graduates of The Farm, it was one of the hardest lessons to learn. As the daughter of his former partner and Elisabeth Blair, he knew Charlotte was already smart and intuitive. Both traits would go a long way in their line of work. But in the field, intuition and logic had to be backed up by action. Charlotte's dossier showed excellent marksmanship, and she was more than an accomplished martial artist. Following in her father's footsteps, she had recently earned her 2nd dan, and planned to continue. To help her practice – and assure himself she was prepared – Mal made sure to take advantage of the deployment delay to work with Charlotte in the dojo. He furrowed his brow as he recalled their last moments in the holodeck-created studio. Clad in their gis, the two circled and stared each other down like something out of a samurai-style spaghetti western. Her hands were slightly lower than guarding stance, eyes narrowed as she held his gaze steadily. Mal feinted twice, neither attempt causing her to flinch. It wasn't until he made his move – a front kick, followed by a quickly executed round kick – that she went into action. Springing to his left she merely got out of the way of the initial kick, then brought her forearms up to block the round kick. As his foot returned to the wooden floor, Mal reached out with his right fist, balacing his weight, and using his momentum to help power the attack. Pivoting, Charlotte deftly deflected the blow to her right, grabbing his wrist with her right hand, and striking his elbow with the blade of her left. She then swept his front leg easily. He flopped to the floor with a resounding smack, as she stepped to straddle him and followed through with a jab to his ribcage. All of the above had taken place in less than the blink of an eye. It hadn't been a complicated attack, or even a difficult defense, but the difference a few months had made was staggering: Charlotte was faster, more fluid, and more deadly. It was an impressive, yet troubling, change. Perhaps more troubling, however, was the realization that somewhere in the last few hours, his own awareness of her had…shifted. He'd known her practically from birth; she'd become important to him. Never his own daughter, but the daughter of a man he loved like a brother, a girl he watched grow in mental and physical prowess for over twenty years. He admired her – loved her, even. But in those twenty years, Mal wasn't sure if he'd ever seen her so…alive. She was nervous about her first assignment, to be sure. But with her hair falling gracefully from its restraints, framing her features; her eyes narrowed as she stalked him; her skin aglow as she grinned down at him in victory – this was a very different Charlotte. And somewhere in the past few hours, he became very aware of that fact. It was more than a mere physical or chemical reaction, he thought, though his body had certainly responded with her proximity. It was almost as though someone had drawn the curtains back, revealing a room he'd no idea was there. The times he sought her out in a crowd; the inexplicable jealousy toward the 2LT who had escorted her to the Marine Corps Ball last year; the effort he expended, tracking down antique naval insignia…all of it seemed to direct him toward an answer he wasn't yet prepared to admit. Even as that answer crept up on him, he was struck with the impropriety of it all. First and foremost, she was the daughter of his best friend, twenty years his junior. He should view her as his own daughter, or even as a niece. That had never truly been the case, however; it was almost as though Fate were mocking him. From another perspective, it might have been amusing. Second, he now served as her station chief. Relationships between Starfleet officers at the same duty station was not unheard of, but frowned upon within the chain of command. Within Fleet Intel, the rules were even more stringent: A relationship could mean retirement, reassignment, or even court martial if the proper charges could be supported. There was simply too much at stake to risk emotional compromise. Still, Mal felt he could do his job effectively…for now, anyway. But hadn't he been drawn into this because of his emotional ties, his relationship with the Matsumuras? Idly, he wondered if Clark had seen this coming. He hoped not. The Deputy Director was just the type of person who would use that information for personal gain. As for himself, Mal hoped he could get a handle on this latest development before Charlotte's return. He also hoped the old saying "absence makes the heart grow fonder" was just an old wives' tale. ***

Pendulum, Part 2 CDR Malcolm Alexander (NPC) Elisabeth Blair Matsumura (Guest) *** Feet propped on one corner of his desk, Malcolm Alexander picked up the PADD closest to his terminal and powered it up. He had sent his resignation letter to his unclassified terminal at headquarters, hoping for one last review before he submitted it up the chain. It was short, sweet, to the point; it thanked Starfleet for their opportunity, but stated in clear terms that he no longer wished to serve in the Operations directorate. He sighed, lowering the PADD as his gaze flitted about the room. The offices allotted to operatives were little more than storage closets with desks. And that was, he reasoned, fitting: They were rarely "in house." Between operations, they were usually either in Starfleet Medical or pretending to be normal citizens. Succeeding more than most, Mal had managed to make his office a "home away from home," where pictures and a British naval ensign adorned the walls alongside awards and certificates. In some ways, he thought, he would really miss his little closet of an office. "I was told," a cultured but weary voice said, "that this was my best hope for a cuppa this late at night." Elisabeth Matsumura was not one to lean in doorways, but the fold of her arms across her chest and the slight brush of a shoulder against the doorjamb belied her near-exhaustion. She shook her head slightly, looked down at the floor. "The guard said I could come back here, I don't know if I...I just needed a break from the damn waiting room," she murmured. Lowering his feet from the desk, Mal sat up, surprised at the sight before him. With eyes that normally danced with a pixie-like gleam, the dark shadows now haunting them spoke volumes of the strain Liz was operating under. "I'm sorry, I…wasn't expecting visitors. Come in, come in; have a seat." He stood, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. "What would you like? Chamomile? Or would you prefer something black?" Turning, he stood at the ready, his attention on the replicator. Liz crossed the distance between the doorway and chair, lowering herself into it with her normal grace -- aside from a slight trembling in her hands from lack of sleep. "Chamomile sounds rather nice, actually," she said quietly, but thankfully as she looked up at Mal. "He's breathing on his own, now," she said without preamble, knowing that Mal needed to hear it as much as she needed to deliver the news. "Doctor Howard says she expects Ronin will wake up...any time." She curbed the slight tremor in her voice, offered a wan smile. "I thought you might like to hear in person, rather than through a transmission." At this, Mal nodded, producing the requested cup of chamomile. He followed it up with a small tray of various accoutrements, including honey and petite gingersnaps. "I do appreciate it. The doctor has been more than cooperative, but she's pointed out on more than one occasion that I'm not technically family." Taking his own cup of Earl Grey, he rested a hip against the front edge of his desk. His brow furrowed as he stirred a small amount of cream and sugar into the cup. "I know better than to ask how you are, so... what about Charlotte? Is she getting by with her grandparents?" Liz took a moment to simply savor a sip of the tea, letting the warmth chase away the chill that had seemed to settle inside the moment she'd received the news. Another sip, and she set the teacup back onto its saucer and looked up. She wasn't certain what had directed her here, but she was grateful to have someone with whom she could talk. "Lottie is...well, she's wondering when Daddy is coming home, and yet...she's thrilled to be with her grandmother and grandfather." The smile faded, her eyes closed. "Mal, if you hadn't..." She swallowed, trying to compose her words properly. "If you had been just a little later getting back…" She wasn't the type to display her emotions publicly, but now, both physically and emotionally weary, a single tear escaped as she held Mal's gaze. "You saved his life," she said quietly, firmly. "Thank you." Mal felt a knot swell at the back of his throat, and he did his best to swallow it back. "He saved my life, Liz. He...The guard came back early, and he just jumped right into the fray. I couldn't get a clear shot." He shook his head. "If I could have shot sooner, if I hadn't hesitated --" Liz shook her head. "There is no use dwelling on hindsight, Mal." She reached over from where she sat and patted the forearm that was within her reach. "You both know how the game is played. Most of the time you win...you're that good. Once in awhile..." She shrugged, unable to complete her sentence, and she settled for another swallow of tea before looking at him. "You know when he wakes up, all he'll be worried about is you," Liz said knowingly, and a true smile touched her lips again. "We are a little fond of you around here, you know." Reaching over, Mal allowed his hand to cover hers. "And I am very fond of you and your husband. You're something of the family I don't have" – he paused, grimacing -- "or rather, don't claim at the moment, and vice-versa. "I know that we're not going to 'win' all the time; and I know that it was only a matter time before one of us was...injured," he continued, refusing to admit the alternative, "it doesn't ease my conscience. Ronin almost died out there, and Ginny... If it had been me out there, would Ginny even know what had happened?" Drawing a deep breath, he allowed a long sigh on the exhale. "Maybe I'm just not cut out for this type of life after all; maybe my father was right." Liz blinked a moment, and looked at him again. Mal was almost as tired as she was, she realized, and there were lines of worry etched in his features. There were a few things that being the wife of an intelligence operative afforded her – a peek behind the curtain, as it were. "The last time I checked," she said slowly, deliberately, "You completed your mission objective. Not to mention, Malcolm Alexander, your dossier says you're perfect for your chosen field. I know some of the things you've brought Ronin home from in one piece, and I know you're damn good. And I also know right now, recovered and ready for duty, he wouldn't want to work with anyone else." "And, if I were back in the field, Lizzie, I wouldn't want to work with anyone else. We're a very good, very effective team. But I can't say that either one of us will ever return to the field after this. We owe it to you, to Charlotte, and to Ginny to be there. Working as we do, there's a huge change we won't be. Is it worth it? Is it worth the prospect that Lottie may grow up without her father? Or that Ginny and I will never make it down the aisle?" Liz exhaled softly, and she looked at Mal with knowing eyes. "And if we didn't know what Romulans had up their sleeves...what would that spell out for Charlotte, or Ginny...or any of us? You entered this field knowing you'd be protecting those you loved. That hasn't changed. Certainly I worry for my husband...it's my right, and my job; so to speak. But I know what he's fighting for. Those things are still important." Rubbing his face wearily with one hand, Mal grimaced. Yes, those things were still important, but was it possible for he and Ronin to simply leave their resolution to others, to step back from the front lines to lead quieter, safer lives? He sighed, knowing the answer even before his mental voice completed the question. "You're right, of course. But what am I supposed to tell Ginny?" He stared down into his tea, swirling the liquid as his lips drew into a thin line. "She can't continue like this, Liz. She's told me as much, and I really don't want to put her through it. What do I do?" Liz exhaled softly, and picked up her teacup once again, taking another sip of the hot liquid. "Perhaps...you shouldn't put her through it," she said tactfully, and then looked up at Mal again. "Somehow I don't see her...having the patience for a convalescence like Ronin's." Her words were spoken gently, but pointedly. Mal looked up from his tea, eyes troubled. "I don't want to hurt her; I do love her." Her expression grew soft, and sympathetic. "I know you do, Mal. And I think she loves you, too but..." She gave him a sad little smile. "Sometimes love isn't strong enough in the face of a calling like yours." The smile grew stronger as she said, "And it is a calling, Mal. You're good at what you do. We need people like you out there." She leaned back a little in her chair, one hand coming up to rub eyes gritty from too little sleep. "I think you may find that, once you talk it out, you both may find yourselves relieved as well as a little sad. I want to see you with the right person for the right reasons, Mal. You deserve it." She handed back the teacup, perhaps three-quarters drained, and rose from the chair. "I should go back...I want to be there when he wakes up," she said quietly. "Thank you for the tea..." She wavered a little on her feet, and was aware of a hand quickly steadying her. "Easy, Lizzie," he said quietly. "Make sure you take care of yourself, too. I don't want you fainting on me, and Ronin would never forgive me if you fell out in the floor and wound up next to him, with a concussion." A wry grin twitched across his lips. "Just a little head rush," she said, perhaps a little shakier than she meant to, and her hand curled around Mal's forearm. She was aware of Mal steering her back to the chair, her knees were all too willing for the relief. "I'm so tired," she murmured, her reserve crumbling just slightly once again. There were few people she trusted enough to allow it in their presence; her husband's partner and best friend was one of them. Reaching across to the desk, Mal picked up the small plate of gingersnaps. "Have a biscuit, love," he said, forcing a smile, "and then I'll walk you back across to Medical." The rest of his dilemma would have to wait. For now, he had a very important charge to take care of. ***

Business as Usual CDR Left Ear JoNs ENS Charlotte Matsumura *** Commander Left Ear JoNs had finally extricated herself from the after briefing crew conversations in the main hanger deck, and now jogged at a steady pace down the corridor on deck 2 that lead to her private office; she had an on the fly appointment to keep with a new transfer to the Excalibur. Leaning against the bulkhead, Ensign Charlotte Matsumura continued to scroll through the small, portable PADD of information on her latest assignment. Nothing out of the ordinary -- mostly the regular dossiers she would be able to access aboard the ship. She had just completed scrolling through the profile of one Commander "Left Ear" JoNs when she caught motion in her peripheral vision. The JoNs in question came zooming around a separation bulkhead and slowed her walking pace when she caught sight of the junior officer. Brown furred, athletically muscular, and sporting a high and tight military cut to her mane, Left Ear was nonetheless shorter then the new crewmember that she was do to process. The Caitian panther flipped an ear back and extended a wide and powerful forepaw. "Ensign Charlotte Matsumura?" Charlotte took the offered paw firmly, but not too much so, and shook it once with a firm nod. "Commander JoNs, I presume?" She offered a slight smile to the senior officer. "Aye. Welcome to the Excalibur. Shall we?" She indicated her closed office door with a wave of her free paw, then diseganged from the handshake and turned to enter her quarters. The retina scanner immediately recognized Left Ears unique iris pattern and the entry way door slid to the side to allow access to the private office. JoNs led the way, and indicated that Matsumura take one of the office chairs facing the desk. Dark, almond-shaped eyes took in the surroundings as Charlotte followed the Caitian, taking a seat as indicated. She was impressed but not intimidated by the panther's overall size and stature. She smiled inwardly, thinking of another Caitian she had met and befriended during her time in training. Given the similarities in appearance and the familial name, she wondered if the two were related. It was a question that would wait until much later. She placed her duffel to the deck and looked to the XO, offering the PADD with her orders. "My orders, ma'am." Left Ear quickly perused the information on the data PADD, scrolling through the content with a practiced eye. "References in order, recommendations, psych evaluation ....," am uncharacteristic smile spread across her muzzle, lighting her eyes with amusement, "I see you enjoy making things go boom per your security specialties section, Ensign?" Eyes mirroring the executive officer's, Charlotte nodded. "Yes, ma'am. An affinity I developed very young, as my profile states. My parents currently rue the day they gave me my chemistry set." "Good. Boom is good. Have a seat, Ensign Matsumura." JoNs settled in on the chair set behind her desk, still scrolling through the PADD as she did so. Charlotte tossed the long braid back over her shoulder, wishing she had tucked it in her typical fashion before boarding the Excal. She lowered herself into the seat, remaining alert, but attempting to match the XO in manner. "Thank you, ma'am." JoNs wasn't completely familiar wtih the Human races of the Earth, but if she were to take an educated guess, what with the darker hair, shape of the eyes, the skin tone and bone structure, Charlotte Matsumura hailed from ancestral Asian stock. The panther XO was satisfied with what she had read in the biograpical profile, and now turned her attention to the actual officer in question. "Ensign, currently, the crew of the Excal is in transition. We are due to ship out on the USS Union in one week. You came on board in the middle of the maelstrom so to speak." Nodding once, Charlotte laced her fingers and let her hands rest on her crossed legs. "So I understand. Station scuttlebutt is widely speculative as to what will happen to the ship since her return. Transfer to the Union is something of a surprise." She winced inwardly. She was sounding a bit too much like her mother for her tastes. "Are we transferring with specific orders?" "The short version is we are to head out to retrieve salvageable technology that interested the quadrant commanders out this way." Left Ears tone was open, yet held a certain command edge that indicated any further questions regarding the mission were not necessarily classified, but definitely on a need to know basis. Ensign though she may have been, Matsumura recognized the tone. She had certainly encountered it enough growing up, and then while at The Farm. She would merely have to be patient and attentive; everything else would reveal itself in time. Not that she liked the prospect of flying blind...but it was what she was trained to do now. She also understood well enough the drive for new technology -- especially out of this sector. Much like the dawn of the nuclear age, the key powers were searching for the right edge to gain ground over their adversary. The ever-shifting political nature of the area made it imperative. She made a mental note to check the latest intel reports as soon as she could, to get a bead on what they might be chasing. "Sounds... intriguing," was all she offered aloud. "Indeed it is that Ensign. So, your specialty is Security studies? Your department lead is Lieutenant Mark Garrison, and you won't serve with a finer department then our security crew." Charlotte nodded. "So I've been led to understand. I've done a cursory glance at the crew roster, but I'm afraid a have a lot of faces to place with names. "I'm certainly looking forward to meeting with Lieutenant Garrison." "Well then Mister Matsumura, I'll let you loose to track down Lieuteannt Garrisoon, although knowing him, he may be looking for any of his new transfers right now as well. Again, welcome to the Excalibur. We are done here, I'll sign off on your assignment transfer, and I'll forward your credentials onto the Captain." The address of "mister" always threw Charlotte off, given her love of naval history, but if she was ruffled, it didn't show. "Thank you, ma'am. I'll seek out my division officer then, and leave you to you work." Rising, she nodded once, reaching down to grab her duffel bag. The Commander gave the new security ensign a curt yet polite nod. "See you out about the Union, Ensign." "And you, Commander." Knowing she was dismissed, Matsumura slipped out of the office, now in search of one Lieutenant Mark Garrison. ***

Coercion CDR Malcolm Alexander (NPC) CAPT James Clark (NPC) *** Stuffing his hands down into the pockets of his trousers, Malcolm Alexander exhaled as he entered the Deputy Director's suite, forcing an aura of nonchalance he didn't feel. Captain James Clark, the Deputy Director of Operations, had been an Academy classmate and fellow intelligence cohort for many years. He worked through the ranks quickly, kissing a few babies and stealing lollipops along the way. The result was a man who was impressed with his own importance. The anteroom, Mal noted, seemed to reflect the inflated ego. It was an expansive space, reaching far beyond to an exterior wall. Sunlight streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling window that provided a view of the Bay Bridge beyond; several antique paintings graced an otherwise non-descript area. The captain's support staff – a yeoman secretary and two junior officers – appeared to work diligently at desks that seemed too modest for the allotted space. Silence surrounded them and, were it not for the cool, fresh air circulating, Mal might have thought himself in a tomb. The blonde yeoman, clad in a black uniform with the typical red accents, looked up as he entered, a wide smile crossing her features. "Commander Alexander," she said as she rose. "Captain Clark is expecting you." His lips twitched. "I'm certain he is," he said. With his left hand, he gestured to the younger woman, allowing her to take the lead. He rolled his eyes as he followed her to the large portal leading into the main office. If the anteroom merely reflected Clark's inflated sense of self, then the main office embodied it. Smaller than the Director's office, the room was no less impressive, with a large desk at the center, elevated slightly by a raised dais. Behind the desk, large holopaintings cycled through works of the great masters, focusing on grassy fields and babbling brooks. Even the chair was oversized, dwarfing the two guest seats opposite. It was the type of arrangement that, on lesser individuals, might prove intimidating, giving Clark the "high ground." Mal found it amusing. "Commander Alexander." The captain gave a taut smile as he rose. He then gestured for Mal to take the empty seat on his left before looking to the yeoman. "I read over the report LT Sealey forwarded and sent it back to you with my comments." The yeoman nodded. "Understood, sir. I'll make the corrections and return it to him. Will there be anything else?" Clark shook his head. "Nothing. Just make sure that the commander and I aren't disturbed." "Of course." With a taut smile to Mal, the young woman backed out of the office. The doors slid closed behind her. "Well, Mal, it's a pleasure to see you again. It's been what? Two months since the last time we spoke?" Alexander bit back a retort. It had been longer than two months since they spoke – a lot longer. A field operative didn't exactly travel in the same political circles as the DDO, and Clark knew it. "Three," he said aloud. "But then, I've been in the field for most of that." "Yes, of course." Clark rubbed his chin with his index finger, pausing as he lowered himself back into his seat. "I assume you'd like to know why I called you here?" "I thought, perhaps, it might have something to do with new orders." Clark nodded. "It does. First and foremost, let me congratulate you on making full commander this cycle. I'm sure you're pleased with that development; it will certainly open up a lot of new opportunities for you." "It was a nice bonus, following the last mission...though I had rather thought the pay raise would be better." "I suppose we all have to make sacrifices for 'king and country,'" the captain replied. "Or, in this case, Earth and the Federation." As if you have the first clue, Mal thought. Outwardly, he only smiled. "One of those opportunities," Clark continued, "is the role of station chief." This caught his attention. "Station chief?" Mal shifted in his chair. "Where, exactly?" "Are you familiar with Camelot Station?" "In the Gamma Quadrant?" Clark nodded in response and Alexander grimaced. "Particularly interesting place, caught in the middle of a civil war, the Romulans, and the Dominion, none of which would constitute a vacation spot. It certainly wouldn't be my first choice for assignment." The captain pursed his lips, picking up a PADD. "It's come to our attention that the area could be rich with information, and we're not exactly getting the information we need out of our brother and sister organizations; we need assets of our own in place there. So, we're going to need our own station chief, as well. I thought you might make a good choice." He offered Mal the PADD. Leaning forward in his seat, Mal took it, furrowing his brow. It contained the dossier of a Starfleet captain, named Ah-Windu Corizon. The Dameon's white hair and yellow eyes stood out starkly against the dark background of his portrait. "Commanding officer, USS Excalibur," he read aloud. "ATAG...Cardie prisoner..." He looked back up at Clark. "Why not recruit him to run our assets in the zone?" "Because he's a person of interest I'd like one of our assets to keep an eye on." "Person of interest?" Clark nodded. "Scroll down. See the classified addendum." Mal did as he was directed and the frown deepened. A shrink in his own right, Fleet Medical strongly believed he was manipulating the results of his analytical sessions to appear normal; they worried that affects of his Cardassian interrogation were affecting his loyalties. Worse, ATAG was hardly forthcoming with the information Corizon was feeding them. He sighed. This was hardly an assignment for a station chief, much less a decent field operative. "James, you don't want a station chief; you want a babysitter or even shrink. Hell, an analyst could provide you with a good leadership analysis." "Corizon wouldn't be your assignment, Mal," Clark replied. "We'll be sending a new operative to cover him, even serve on the Excal. Your role would be to run that operative and any others we sent your way." "Ah, so I'd play tour guide to a babe in the woods, then." Clark lifted only his eyes, pupils glinting with dark humor even as his thin lips twitched. "The babe in the woods, as you say, would be Charlotte Matsumura." Mal blinked. He leaned forward in his chair, bringing an index finger to his ear, tilting it as though to better listen. He gave a sarcastic laugh. "I'm sorry. I thought I heard you say you were assigning Charlotte Matsumura to the Gamma Quadrant." Clark said nothing, leaning back into his own seat cushions. Alexander stared at him for a long moment before he lowered his hand. "I can tell by the smug grin that you're not kidding." He pinched the bridge of his nose, reining back his temper even as he felt his blood pressure pounding in his ears. "Do you have any idea what it would be like for a rook out there, James? The politics alone are bad enough, never mind the fact that they have vampires – real ones – not just the metaphorical. And you want her to keep an eye on her own CO while running ops?" He shook his head. "Did Ronin drop you one too many times on the mats? Or is this just revenge for making you look like an ass at the last meet?" The amusement vanished from Clark's eyes, and he straightened. "Ensign Matsumura has shown herself to be more than capable," he replied. "She was chosen based on those attributes, and not on her personal ties. But, if you'd rather not accept the assignment, I'm certain I can find someone else." Alexander's lips thinned. "I thought you were above blackmail, James." "Blackmail? Oh, no, Mal; you misunderstand me. As a family friend, however, I thought you might be best qualified to run her out there: You'd have a vested interest in keeping her safe." Mal fought to keep his expression neutral. Family friend. Right. You just want me to rot out there. "And if I don't accept the assignment?" "Let's just say you might find it difficult to reach captain." The commander forced a taut smile, his eyes cold. "Well, since you put it that way, how can I resist?" ***

Uh, Jonesy? It's DiNozzo. If he thought he could get away with it, he would be that stupid. ::chuckles::

Pendulum, Part 1 CDR Malcolm Alexander (NPC) Virginia ("Ginny") Lewis (NPC) *** Lieutenant Malcolm Alexander sat forward, elbows propped on knees, his hands splayed out before him. He flexed the long fingers, eyes tracing the faint, blue veins that snaked along the back of his hand. They stood out in sharp relief against the smooth, tanned skin stretched over swollen knuckles. They were achy today, already enlarged from years of martial arts training, and abused further on this latest mission. Absently, he smoothed his left hand over his right knuckles. Who knew Romulans had such a hard jaw, anyway? He sighed. As a boy, he could remember sitting at the piano, watching as his father's hands danced across antique ivory keys. His fingers, too, were long and thin – perfect for a pianist, even one who played only as a hobby. But even after years at the piano, Benjamin Alexander's hands showed little sign of wear. They were -- and would always be -- the soft, well-manicured hands of a Member of Parliament. Turning his hands palm up, Mal traced along the lifeline of his left hand with his right thumb. His hands would never be that kempt. They were not the hands of an administrator, and would always have more in common with the hands of a farmer or a laborer, the kind accustomed to physical work and activity. And today, though they were impeccably clean, he could still feel faint traces of his best friend's blood. The operation, he thought, was supposed to have been an easy one: A willing defector in a soft target, with an easy escape route. But that all fell apart the moment they had been discovered by the Tal Shiar bodyguard their defector was supposed to have sent packing for the evening. His partner, Ronin Matsumura, was the first to react. The wiry martial artist launched himself at the Romulan, both falling to the floor – hard. The momentary stun allowed Matsumura to gain a brief advantage which he exploited. He pinned the guard and applied pressure to the neck, attempting what might be called a modified sleeper hold. It hadn't been enough. Mal could remember vividly how his fingers flexed around the grip of his disrupter, brow furrowed as he waited for a clear shot. By the time the right moment arrived, it was nearly too late for Ronin. At best, he had suffered broken ribs, head trauma, and possibly a broken jaw; at worst, there was internal bleeding and a collapsed lung. Mal and their target, a highly-placed Romulan official, made it back to the operations ship with little time to spare. Ronin had immediately been admitted to Starfleet Medical upon their arrival back at Headquarters. That had been almost two days prior. As the doctors worked their magic and Ronin struggled to survive, Mal had been reverted back to Terran form, debriefed, and reassigned to headquarters for "an undetermined amount of time." Which means, he thought, they couldn't decide if I've been stupid enough to warrant losing my job. It was a good thing they hadn't asked him. He really didn't want to hear his father say, "I told you so." "Malcolm?" A soft voice dragged him from his reverie. Blinking, he looked up and found his fiancée, Virginia Lewis – Ginny to her friends – hovering just over his right shoulder. A taut smile flickered across wide lips as she knelt beside the chair, taking his hand in hers. "I'm sorry it took so long to get here. I had to hear from a friend of a friend..." Mal covered her hand with his. "I'm sorry you had to find out that way. The debrief was brutal. And then the docs wanted to check me out after seeing the shape Ronin was in." Concern mingled with fear in green eyes as she looked up at him. "Have they said anything?" "Nothing yet," he answered. "Liz was dropping Charlotte off with the in-laws, and then coming down. I imagine they'll give her more information than they will me." "And you – you're okay?" At this, Mal snorted. "Nothing a few rounds of therapy won't cure." "Mal," Ginny charged, "that's not funny." "You're right, it isn't. But if I don't laugh, I...don't know what I'll do." Breaking free from her comforting touch, he pushed himself to his feet and ran a hand through his hair. "I mean, my best friend lay in there, probably dying, and I don't have the first damned clue what's going on. And that's only *after* the worst op of my thus far very short career." Ginny remained where she was, kneeling, and looking up at him. "What happened?" "I...I can't talk about it. It's not that I don't want to – my God, I'd love for you to understand – but I can't. Let's just say that we ran into a very determined opposition player when we were least expecting it and everything went to Hell from there." Mal shook his head. "If Ronin hadn't...done what he did... we both would have died. For now, it might just be him, and that's not fair. Not to him, not to Liz, and definitely not to their little girl." "And your dying would be so fair?" The brunette stood, eyes registering her shock. "Mal, our wedding date is two months away. And I know your parents care, regardless of what's happened. It's not as though you're without your own family!" Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. She was right, of course. He still had a mother and a father, and would soon have a wife of his own. If things continued along this course, he might well have a child in some near future. His death in the place of Ronin, then, wouldn't be any more "fair" in the grand scheme. He knew this. But it didn't make the endless waiting any easier. With a sigh, he crossed and placed his hands on her shoulders. "You're right, Gin. It wouldn't be any more fair." He gave a reconciliatory smile and drew her slowly into an embrace. "It's just – we've gotten bumps and bruises before. It's never been this serious." Ginny buried her face closer to his shoulder. "When Clay called and said there'd been a problem, I didn't know what to think," she said. "I was so afraid it was going to be you, that maybe you weren't going to make it back. I...it's selfish now, especially knowing Liz and Charlotte, but I..." She allowed her sentence to hang. "Shhh..." Mal smoothed his hand over her hair, hugging her closer. "It's all right, Gin. I know what you mean. But I'm here." They stood there, embraced, silently drawing on one another's strength for a long while. It was Ginny who slowly drew back. Reaching up, she smoothed the hair over his ears, where strands of silver were beginning their assault. She then drew her gaze to meet his. His heart clenched at the fear and worry there, knowing he was likely the source. His suspicions were confirmed when she finally spoke. "I'm not sure I can live like this, Mal." "Like...this?" he echoed, furrowing his brows. "Sitting. Waiting. Never knowing." Ginny shook her head. "I kept dreaming...Well, some pretty bad dreams." He stroked his thumb gently across her cheek. "I'm sorry, Gin. Maybe...maybe I should just transfer – get reassigned to headquarters permanently, or maybe work with the desk jockeys in Intel." Blinking, Ginny looked up at him, eyes wide. "You can't do that because of me." "It's not just because of you," he answered, "though I'll admit you're definitely a motivating factor." She gave him a wary smile that warmed his heart, gave strength to his thought process. "I was just sitting here thinking that my hands" – he paused, holding up his hands – "these hands are getting old before their time; I'm getting old before my time. And it's this job, the constant training, the uppercuts – I don't have to do this to serve. I don't have to die to do my duty." "Mal, I can't ask you to leave Operations." Mal's lips thinned. "You're not, Ginny. I'm volunteering to." ***

Name: Charlotte A. Matsumura Rank: Lieutenant DOB: 15 April, San Francisco, NorthAm, EARTH Age: 21 Parents: Elisabeth Blair and Ronin Matsumura Current Duty Station: USS Excalibur, NCC-2004-C Biographical Profile Section A: Training History Starfleet Academy Bachelor of Science, Physics Bachelor of Science, Security Studies Specialization: Explosive Ordinance Starfleet Intelligence Intelligence Officers Basic Instruction Advanced Topics: Explosive Ordinance Section B: Personal History Charlotte Matsumura was the only child born to Elisabeth Blair, professor of Historical Western Literature at Starfleet Academy, and her husband, Ronin Matsumura, an instructor in martial arts, also at the Academy. She was raised with both English and Japanese influences shaping her personality. From her mother, she learned an appreciation for the intellectual arts – reading, writing, painting – while learning her appreciation for the physical arts from her award-winning father. Leading a mostly quiet life, Charlotte found she was drawn to the sciences with her first chemistry set at age 8, followed by an electronics lab at age 9. She gained entrance to Starfleet Academy and chose to major in physics. She felt that this, more than anything else, would give her a solid foundation from which to understand more about biology and chemistry. Reaching her fourth year, she discovered particular interest in making things, as she says, "go boom." She is currently working on mastering the katana and wakizashi, and is interested in exploring Klingon and Vulcan martial arts. She finds the similarities of these two races to her own Eastern influences intriguing. When possible, she continues working with her father to learn Romulan and Cardassian hand-to-hand techniques. Psychological Profile Charlotte leads a mostly quiet life. She can be restless, and given to fits of temper, becoming a deadly opponent when riled. Because of her father's Eastern influence, however, she struggles to find an inner balance between war and peace. Her martial arts training has made her both adaptive and attentive – more so if a subject or objective is of direct interest to her. Her training has also provided an extraordinary sense of determination and mastery of her physical presence. Griffin Kingsley, Ph.D. Counselor Starfleet Academy Addendum: I have observed that Charlotte shows strong self-confidence in any task that requires mental or physical agility; social situations, however, can make her uneasy, as she seems to still retain some of the awkwardness of youth. She has several close friends to whom she confides and is guarded around strangers. While this is an excellent trait for an operative, I am concerned regarding her ability to relax and recuperate between assignments. Recommend yearly counseling sessions to observe progress in this area. Dara Kimball, Ph.D. Chief Psychologist Starfleet Intelligence * Areas in gray denote items not necessarily public/character knowledge. Please contact player for more info.

Personnel File: Matsumura, Charlotte A. Known Associates: Name: Ronin Matsumura Rank: Commander (CDR) (Ret.) DOB: 21 October, Niigata Prefecture, Japan EARTH Age: 48 Parents: Kaemon and Miya Matsumura Siblings: Rohai Matsumura, sister (deceased) Spouse: Elisabeth Blair Children: Charlotte Matsumura, 21 Current Duty Station: Starfleet Academy, San Francisco, EARTH (Civilian) Biographical Profile Section A: Training History Starfleet Academy Bachelor of Science, Security Studies Minor: Kinesiology Starfleet Intelligence Intelligence Officer Basic Instruction Intelligence Officer Advanced Instruction Trinity College, Oxford University Masters of Science, Education (Higher Education) Section B: Personal History As a younger woman, Miya Matsumura starred in a series of martial arts films, often credited with reviving popular interest in Japanese martial arts. She herself studied an Okinawan style founded by Kenwa Mabuni, and originally established in the Twentieth Century. It was in the dojo that she first met her husband, Kaemon. Kaemon Matsumura was a young man of excellent education and a rising star within Federation Service. At the age of 32, he served as the Assistant to the Deputy Chair, Federation Security Council for approximately ten years. He retired early, and continues working in private service as a mediator. Known in diplomatic circles for his introspective manner, he tends to watch others and act quietly. Their first child, Rohai, was named for the blonde-white hair that capped her head when born. This eventually fell out and gave way to long, traditionally dark hair. Ronin was the second born, and named for the wandering, masterless samurai of times past. Both Kaemon and Miya instilled a strong sense of honor and duty in their children. It was little surprise when both ended up at Starfleet Academy. Rohai majored in engineering, quickly rising to full lieutenant. When her research vessel was attacked by a saboteur, she died attempting to contain the resulting core breach. Less than half the crew managed to evacuate to safety. In the fall following graduation from the Academy, Ronin met Elisabeth Blair, a graduate student at Trinity College. The two shared a brief courtship and married after a year. Their only daughter, Charlotte was born two years later. Shortly after the birth of Charlotte, Ronin was recruited as an operative for Starfleet Intelligence. His martial arts training and cool head under pressure proved to be excellent assets for field work. He and Academy classmate, Malcolm Alexander, trained together and eventually worked field operations, chiefly in Romulan territory. Further details of their exploits are still classified. Injured in the line of duty, however, Ronin returned to Earth to convalesce. Contemplating leaving service, he enrolled in the Trinity College Masters of Science in Education program, with hopes of eventually teaching kinesiology at high school or college levels. He returned to operations upon completion of his program. Between operations, Ronin continued to teach martial arts and self-defense at Intelligence Headquarters. Age and environment began to take their toll, and he once again considered a life outside of Intelligence service. Finally, as his daughter entered the Academy, he submitted a request to be permanently transferred to Headquarters staff. The request was granted. Four years later, he retired. He now teaches karate and self-defense at "The Farm" as a civilian, and at the family's private dojo. Psychological Profile [Note: Subject retired, SD [#####.#]. This is the last summary provided by SFI for personnel record. Subject is still considered under the care of SFI psychologists, as the department recognizes the enduring nature of trauma sustained in the line of duty.] I've met civilians who lack the overwhelming sense of calm Matsumura exudes, regardless of the situation. This is impressive for a man whose dossier reads like a good holonovel. Injuries sustained during a botched operation twenty years ago seem to have faded and, despite concern at the time, he has resumed a normal life with little mental trauma. Recommend bi-annual fitness report, and counseling only on an as-needed basis. Griffin Kingsley, Ph.D. Deputy Assistant, Chief of Psychology Starfleet Intelligence [OOC: I tried to actually include the name of the style Matsumura Sensei teaches, but it came up against the profanity filter. ::chuckles::]

Name: Malcolm Grayson Alexander Rank: Commander (CDR) DOB: 16 February, Bath, England EARTH Age: 46 Parents: Benjamin and Fionna (Grayson) Alexander Current Duty Station: Camelot Station, Gamma Quadrant Support Biographical Profile Section A: Training History Starfleet Academy Bachelor of Science, Security Studies Bachelor of Arts, Pre-Eugenics History Starfleet Intelligence Intelligence Officer Basic Instruction Intelligence Officer Advanced Instruction Starfleet War College Masters of Science, Information Management Section B: Personal History The only son born to (Lord) Benjamin and (Lady) Fionna Alexander, Malcolm spent much of his youth alternating between the role of class clown and juvenile delinquent. At school, he engaged with subjects that interested to him, and excelled; those that did not catch his interest bored him. As a result, he was often ill-behaved during those periods, whisked frequently to the Headmaster's office. Through an intervention by his parents and a favored professor, he was eventually convinced to tolerate even the most boring classes and graduate. Entering the Academy, little was expected from the sub-par performer. Psychological analysis and testing, however, showed untapped potential, and several of his professors took a vested interest in his success. After dabbling in several different tracks, the Security Studies program attracted his attention and he declared his major just prior to his Third Class year. It was in that year he first met fellow cadet Ronin Matsumura. The two became friends over the course of a particularly rough term in Strategic Theory. Soon thereafter, the elder Ronin began tutoring Malcolm in martial arts. Frustrated at first, Alexander stuck with the training; it helped affect a very strong personality change. He became more observant, more focused, and more consistent. This change was reflected in his studies, and his grades rose accordingly. He graduated one rank behind Matsumura in class standings. Upon promotion to full lieutenant, he was approached by recruiters from Starfleet Intelligence. He accepted, and soon found himself on "The Farm," in the same cohort as Matsumura. Upon graduation, both were assigned to Operations Directorate. There, the two frequently ran operations in Romulan territory. When Matsumura suffered a life-threatening injury during an operation, both were reassigned to Headquarters for recuperation. Matsumura chose to attend Trinity College, as he contemplated leaving service; having found his niche in intelligence work, Alexander enrolled in Starfleet War College, focusing on an advanced degree in Information Management. Both eventually returned to field work. He was promoted to full commander three years prior to this assessment and, after the retirement of CDR Ronin Matsumura, will take on new orders. Addendum: By his request, Commander Alexander has been removed from Operations Directorate and assigned temporary duty (TDY) as communications support to Camelot Station, Gamma Quadrant. Psychological Profile On the surface, Malcolm Alexander appears to be the quintessential British gentleman: quiet, well-read, well-mannered. His organizational skills are exceptional, and it is very clear that he knows how to wield his (ample) temper to greater effect. But to those who know him better, Mal – as his friends call him – still shows hints of the rebellious teenager. His refusal to conform to his parents' expectations, for example, continues to be a source of contention between Alexander and his father. And, while he operates within Fleet Intelligence parameters, it is not uncommon for him to tread a very thin line. His time in operations has not left him unscathed and, on occasion, he has been known to suffer nightmares, reliving some of the less pleasant operations. Other than this, he has shown himself to be a resilient operative, with a strong coping mechanism. Dara Kimball, Ph.D. Chief of Psychology Starfleet Intelligence

Setting the Standard CDR Malcolm Alexander (NPC) Sensei Ronin Matsumura (NPC) Time in the field with a partner was somewhat akin to living with a roommate: Each operative learned the quirks and idiosyncrasies of the other, and either grew to hate him or her with the flaming passion of a thousand suns, or an unbreakable bond of friendship was formed. For Malcolm Alexander and former partner Ronin Matsumura, the latter was true. Mal considered himself lucky. Matsumura and his wife, Elisabeth, became something of a second family to him – an important cornerstone in his life when his own family seemed to desert him. That time together and the resulting bond also meant that he had learned to read the fairly inscrutable Matsumura – no small feat in itself. That was why, as the two friends sat in a small café near the waterfront, Mal watched Ronin swirl the dregs of his tea in a petite cup. His lips were pursed, golden eyes narrowed; Mal could hear the wheels of thought grinding. He was just about sure he knew why. "All right," the commander said finally, "I'll bite. When you're this quiet, you're either mad as hell or thinking too bloody much. Which is it this morning?" Matsumura's lips twisted to a grimace, his eyes casting a glance at his old friend. "Perhaps a little of both," he replied. There was a brief pause as he visible considered his next words. "Charlotte says her orders had been...delayed...for eighteen months." Mal nodded. "So I'd heard." "So I remember a time when our orders were...delayed... for eighteen months." Alexander considered his own cup. Calm as he may have been under the aim of a disruptor, he dared not look his friend in the eye. "You think she's been recruited, then?" "Strongly suspect." There was a pause. "But you knew." "Knew?" Mal echoed, and Ronin nodded. There was a bitterness there Mal recognized, a bite to his friend's tone he had not heard for over twenty years. The last time it had crept into conversation had been as his friend struggled with the very real possibility of medical retirement. To hear it applied now, to the possibility of his daughter joining Fleet Intelligence, wasn't surprising. "No. I suspected Roane would approach her, but I had no way of knowing." Matsumura narrowed his eyes, fingers tightening visibly around his teacup. "But you didn't try to stop him; to talk to her." "Not to put too fine a point on it, Ronin, but she's an adult. Much as you – or I – would like to protect her, she's capable of making her own decisions." He sipped his tea and grimaced. It was cold. "You made the same decision once, and for very similar reasons. Would you really expect Charlotte to do any less?" Rubbing his right hand absently over his clean-shaven head, Matsumura grunted his response. His brow furrowed and he frowned into his tea. "The reality of the field was...different than we expected." "And you had ample opportunity to leave before you did, old friend; we both did. Yet we stayed. Why?" "I...wasn't sure at first. But I came to realize it was a necessary job, one that needed to be done." He gave a snort of sarcastic laughter. "And I was good at it." Mal studied his friend's expression, noted the concern in eyes that usually masked emotion so well. "She will be, too -- you do realize that?" "She will be magnificent," Ronin replied. An impish grin played across the other man's lips and Mal chuckled. "Magnificent? As a rook, I'd simply hope for good, possibly excellent – both of which require living through the experience." Matsumura grinned over the rim of his cup. "She's my daughter. She will be magnificent." Mal smirked. "As you say. And, as much as I enjoy seeing you in Father Bear mode, I have a meeting with Clark in a few hours. I should train for a while...possibly work out some of the aggression early." His friend's grin widened. "Good. You can find out where he's sending her." "You're not at all interested in what corner of the galaxy they'll banish me to?" Alexander regarded Ronin with brows raised. "At the moment? No." "Fine," Mal said with a resigned sigh. "I'll pump the bastard for information. On one condition." "And that is...?" "You don't beat the hell out of me. The last takedown on Monday bloody well *hurt*." With a laugh, Matsumura clapped Mal on the injured shoulder. The commander winced. "Getting soft in your old age, Malcolm," he said. Tossing his napkin onto the table, he continued smirking, and headed for the door. Mal sighed. His napkin joined Matsumura's on the table. "You have no idea, old friend." He followed the taller man into the world outside. ***

"Kabuki Dance" CDR Malcolm Alexander (NPC) *** Malcolm Alexander stood watching as the last rays of sunlight danced over the rippling waters of San Francisco Bay. It had been a good day, surrounded by good friends as they celebrated Charlotte's graduation from the Academy. There was little more he could have asked for. Tomorrow, however, would be a very different day. Tomorrow, a young lieutenant would escort his division officer, Commander Roane Townsend, to the small cafe where Charlotte and her newly-graduated friends would meet to celebrate. They would break from excited discussion of their orders over coffee and tea as the officer – just barely outranking them – approaches. He would smile uncertainly, unaccustomed to striking up conversation with beautiful girls. Charlotte being Charlotte, she'd return the smile and attempt to put him at ease. "What," she would say, "can I do for you, Lieutenant?" The young lieutenant would clear his throat. "Commander Townsend would like to speak with you about your orders." "Of course." Puzzled though she would be, Charlotte would excuse herself and join the anonymous lieutenant, crossing to a table far away from the others. There, Townsend would be waiting. Townsend, as Alexander recalled, was a charismatic man, chosen for his good looks and impeccable manners. Small talk flowed naturally and casually from his lips. Using that easy charm, he would engage a wary Charlotte; he might even discuss her father -- the same man who tossed him repeatedly to the mat in training. Like her father, however, Lottie would want to cut to the chase: What about her orders? It was then the pitch would begin: the weaving of duty, honor, and secrecy; the things rough men do so others may sleep at night. It was dangerous, remarkable, and rewarding work. Would she be willing...? There would be slight variations, of course, but Mal could see it played before him in the theatre of his mind's eye. Still, he was sure of one thing: There was no way in God's expansive universe that Charlotte Matsumura would turn down Starfleet Intelligence. Mal sighed. Part of him wished that she would; the same part that wanted nothing more than to take her as she was now, keep her safe, keep her honest, and unexposed to the horrors of field work. And, though he bristled at the thought, she could marry, raise a family – have the "normal" life that he had thus far missed out on. Another part of him knew Charlotte was never meant for the "normal" life. She was too much her father's daughter for that. Ronin Matsumura was calm, controlled, and analytical. Much as a Vulcan, however, raging emotion – love, anger, hate – roiled beneath the surface. Ronin channelled it, turned that fire back onto itself. Combined with the assiduous belief in duty and honor instilled by his parents, he became one of the most effective field operatives in the Directorate. Mal could already see similar traits developing in Charlotte. Unlike her father, however, such control was not yet second nature...or perhaps it was evidence that she was also her mother's daughter. Elisabeth Blair Matsumura, while "veddy British" could be exponentially more expressive than her husband. The Academy twittered with rumors of her outbursts at rude, ignorant, or lazy students in her literature classes. He could see traces of this in Charlotte, as well. Not that he, himself, was one to talk. But over the years, Mal had learned the art of diplomacy – and when to chuck it out the window. If Charlotte could do the same, she would go a long way in Federation service. He only hoped she would survive the trip. "Clark to Alexander." The thweep of his commbadge interrupted his thoughts, and Mal straightened. "Alexander here. What can I do for you, Captain?" "It would appear we have new orders for you, Commander. Would you mind joining me in my office, around two o'clock tomorrow afternoon?" A smirk twitched across Mal's features. Would he mind? Of course he would. But one did not turn down invitations from the Deputy Director of Operations. It didn't help that the timing of his new orders set his curiosity into overdrive. Was it simply a coincidence he was being cut new orders just as Charlotte would be? There was only one way to find out. "I'll be there with bells on, sir." ***

I wouldn't say fun, per se. Interesting, maybe. But again, you're dealing with understatement. ;) Thank you!

"Between the Lines" ENS Charlotte Matsumura CDR Malcolm Alexander (NPC) *** Charlotte Matsumura stood on the small teak footbridge overlooking a black-bottom koi pond. The sun reflected brightly off the calm surface, rippling occasionally with the gentle swish of a goldfish tail. Behind her, she could hear the soft trickle of water over the hand carved fountain. Elsewhere there was silence – the first she'd had all day. It wasn't that her mother was annoying...okay, maybe it was. And, Charlotte supposed, she couldn't blame her. It wasn't everyday that your only daughter graduated from Starfleet Academy. But Elisabeth Blair, for all her stern reputation in the classroom, was acting every bit the mother hen. She hadn't stopped clucking all morning. "At this rate," she sighed, dropping her chin into her palm. "I'll be glad to get to graduation." "You aren't looking forward to it?" Charlotte straightened. "Mal – I didn't hear you --" Malcolm Alexander gave a rueful smile, green eyes creasing at the corners. "I'm sorry, Charlotte," he replied. "Apparently old habits die hard." The sparkle in his eyes started a too-familiar flutter in her stomach. Charlotte had known Malcolm Alexander her entire life. Capped with dark hair, his classic good looks were apparent to her, even early on. At the tender age of six, she had announced to her mother that she intended to marry the attractive, much-older man. Of course, with his easy smile and arresting green eyes, her mother agreed he would be a good match for any girl...any older girl. She made it very clear she expected the schoolgirl crush to fade with time. But Mal, as he was known to family and friends, became something of a permanent fixture in their lives. A close friend of her father, Ronin Matsumura, Mal trained almost daily in the private family dojo. In some instances, he assisted the elder Matsumura as he instructed Charlotte in the martial arts as well; he was also a frequent guest at the family dinner table. There, he would entertain her, telling stories of his "troubled youth" and how he drove his parents to distraction. Charlotte sensed a kindred spirit beneath the stiff, British exterior. As a result, the schoolgirl crush hadn't faded; it had deepened into affection. If the old family friend had noted the interest, he showed no signs. But then, he'd never really treated her like a child to begin with, something came to appreciate as a teen. She had made a vow long ago, however, to keep whatever feelings she had for him to herself. Swallowing back the lump in her throat, Charlotte smirked up at him. "One of these days, I'm going to hear how you learned those old habits." His smile wavered slightly. "Perhaps one day," he said. "But not, I think, today." The smile returned full force. From behind his back, he produced a package, a few inches long from being a perfect square. "I know you said you didn't want anything but, well, I've never been very good at following the rules..." Casting him a glare, Charlotte pulled back the paper to reveal a wooden box, capped with a glass side. Inside, stark against a watermarked version of the British naval ensign, were two black rectangles of fabric, each adorned with a single curl of gold bullion. Her eyes widened. "Mal, is this --" "Shoulder boards from a twentieth-century ensign in Her Majesty's Navy." He nodded, pausing. "I thought they were appropriate, all things considered. Congratulations, Ensign Matsumura." "I don't know what to say," Charlotte replied. She shook her head, looking up at him as tears threatened. "They're...incredible. Thank you." Kindness touched the familiar green eyes and she gave a start as she felt his hand brush against her cheek. Gently, he wiped away the single tear that escaped her lashes. "You're – ah, quite welcome." She noted his voice was quiet, and strangely thick with emotion. "Just promise me one thing?" Charlotte furrowed her brow. "What?" "Be careful." His hand dropped to her upper arm, giving it a squeeze. "You'll understand more later, but please, just promise you'll be careful." "O-of course I will." The smile on Mal's face was one of relief, though taut; Charlotte could still read the tension in his eyes. "Good." He drew a deep breath before offering her his arm. "Yes, well... Shall we get this show started, Ensign? If we make your mother wait any longer, I'm afraid she'll explode." Still confused, Charlotte chose to file the events away for consideration. There would be plenty of time later to over analyze the past few moments. She forced a smile, eventually finding it felt genuine. "We can't have that now can we, Commander?" Hooking her arm through his, she was led back to the house. By the time she returned, she would no longer be a cadet. ***